University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


CHAKLES  WILLIAM  QUANTKELL. 


NOTED  GUERRILLAS, 


OR  THE 


WARFARE    OF   THE    BORDER. 


BEINtf  A  HISTOBT  OP  THE  LIVES  AND  ADVENTURES  OP 


QUANTRELL,  BILL  ANDERSON,  GEORGE   TODD,  DAVE   POOLE, 
FLETCHER  TAYLOR,    PEYTON  LONG,    OLL   SHEPHERD, 
ARCH    CLEMENTS,    JOHN     MAUPIN,    TUCK    AND 
WOOT  HILL,  WM.  GREGG,  THOMAS  MAU- 
PIN, THE  JAMES  BROTHERS,  THE 
YOUNGER    BROTHERS, 
ARTHUR  McCOY, 

AND  NUMEROUS  OTHER  WELL  KNOWN 

GUERRILLAS  OF  THE  WEST. 


BT 

JOHN  N.  EDWARDS, 
Author  of  "Shelby  and  His  Men,"  "Shelby's  Expedition  to  Mexico,"  Eta. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


ST.  LOUIS,  MO. i 

BRYAN,  BRAND  &  COMPANY. 

CHICAGO,  ILL.,  THOMPSON  &  WAKE  FIELD. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  OAL.,  A.  L.  BANCROFT  &  CO. 

1877. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


CHARLES  WILLIAM  QUANTRELL, 

•           •           frontispiece* 

COLEMAN  YOUNGER,              .            • 

THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER, 
JAMES  YOUNGER                                • 

.           .           •           111 

CLARK  HOCKENSMITH,       •            . 
WILL  HULSE,        .            .            • 
LEE  McMURTY,          «           •           • 
T.  F.  MAUPIN,         .           •           • 
TUCK  HILL,     .           •           •           • 
WOOT  HILL,           .            •            • 
OLL  SHEPHERD,        •            •           • 
GEORGE  SHEPHERD,      ,           • 

•           .           •           .239 
.           .           •           .            290 
•           .           •           •      290 
t           .          •          •           §90 

•            •            •            •      825 
,            •            .            .            825 
•            •            .            .872 
•           ...           872 

Copyright,  1877,  by 
N.  M.  Bryan. 

Becktold  A  Co.,  Binders, 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 

,4-5 


"The  standing  side  by  side  till  death, 
The  dying  for  some  wounded  friend, 
The  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end, 
The  strong  endurance  till  the  breath 
And  body  took  their  way«  apart, 
I  only  know.    I  keep  my  trust, 
Their  vices  I  earth  has  them  by  heart. 
Their  virtues  1  they  are  with  iheir  dust.99 


M529791 


CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

PAGK 

The  Guerrilla  and  the  motives  that  governed  him — His  tactics  in 
War — His  patience  in  adversity — His  wonderful  pistol  practice 
— His  marvelous  horsemanship — His  peculiar  and  graphic  mill- 
itary  dialect — How  he  blended  the  ferocity  of  a  savage  with  the 

tenderness  of  a  woman •    13 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE   CAUSES   THAT   PRODUCED   THE   GUERRILLA. 

Border  difficulties  with  the  Red  Legs  and  Jayhawkers  of  Kansas- 
Many  deeds  of  lawlessness  and  cruelty  committed  by  irresponsi- 
ble Robbers  and  unjustly  attributed  to  the  Guerrillas — Driven 
to  war  by  the  murder  of  friends  or  the  destruction  of  property 
they  fought  to  kill  and  studied  killing  as  a  science.  •  .  •  19 

CHAPTER  -HI, 

AMERICAN   GUERRILLAS  COMPARED    WITH   THOSE   OP  OTHER  COUNTRIEa. 

The  Guerrillas  of  France,  Spain,  Italy  and  Mexico— They  fought 
for  their  religion  and  lived  by  plunder — Sometimes  brave,  but 
generally  cowardly  and  cruel — They  in  no  manner  compared 
with  the  Guerrillas  of  America  in  courage,  endurance,  or  the 
science  of  warfare — Fra  Diavolo  and  Napoleon — Colonel  Dupin 
and  Capt.  Ney's  Guerrillas  in  Mexico  under  Maximilian- 
General  Francis  Marion  of  the  Revolution.  •  •  •  •  23 

CHAPTER  IV. 

QUANTRELL. 

His  early  life— His  home  and  his  devotion  to  his  mother— The  trip 
across  the  plains — The  murder  on  the  prairie — The  lonely  watch 
of  the  wounded  brother  by  the  side  of  the  dead  one — The  battle 
with  the  wolves  and  the  vultures — Rescued  by  an  old  Indian,  .  31 

CHAPTER  V. 

QUANTRELL  AND   THE    KANSAS   JAYHAWKERS. 

His  slow  recovery  from  his  wounds— Dreams  and  reveries- 
Becomes  a  school  teacher — visits  Leavenworth  and  assumes 
the  name  of  Charley  Hart.  Graphic  description  of  the  typical 
Kansas  Jayhawker — Jim  Lane,  Jennison  and  Montgomery— 
Quautrell,  alias  Charley  Hart,  joins  the  Jayhawkers  and  Is 
enrolled  in  the  company  that  murdered  his  brother — His  quiet 
and  gentlemanly  demeanor  wins  the  respect  of  his  new  asso- 


CONTENTS  Of 

dates,  and  he  is  chosen  Orderly  Sergeant — Active  operations 
against  « 'Border  Ruffians"  and  hostile  Indians— A  mysterious 
visitation — The  mysterious  handwriting  becomes  legible,  but 
who  holds  the  bloody  pen? — Quantrell  is  promoted  to  a 
Lieutenantcy — His  Captain  becomes  communicative — He  dies 
soon  afterwards  with  a  hole  in  his  forehead — The  Lieutenant 
buys  a  handsome  uniform  and  adds  another  pistol  to  his  belt— 
The  scene  of  operations  transferred  to  Lawrence — Organization 
of  political  clubs — Quantrell  becomes  a  Liberator — The  raid  into 
Missouri  and  the  attack  on  Morgan  Walker's  house — The  Lib- 
erators are  liberated — The  mysterious  handwriting  stands 
revealed,  and  Quantrell  becomes  a  Guerrilla.  .  •  .86 

CHAPTER  VI. 
QUANTRELL'S  FIRST  BATTLES  OP  THE  CIVIL  WAR. 

Carthage,  Wilson's  Creek,  Lexington — Organization  of  the  Guer- 
rillas—Hanging of  Searcy — Poole,,  Gregg,  Jarrette,  Coger,  Todd, 
Cole  Younger  and  others — Younger's  pistol  practice  and  how  it 
began  to  bear  fruit-— Excitement  in  Kansas  City — The  Guerrillas 
disband — The  reorganization— Quantrell  and  his  men  surprised  at 
the  Tate  House— A  "light"— The  desperate  battle— "Shot  guns 
to  the  front" — The  charge — The  second  surprise  at  the  house 
of  Samuel  C.  Clark— Capt.  Peabody  charges  the  dwelling— 
Blunt's  duel  with  the  Federal  trooper — The  rush  for  liberty— 
The  pursuit  and  the  ambuscade 60 

CHAPTER  VII. 

BATTLES   AND   SURPRISES. 

The  killing  of  young  Blythe — Dreadful  slaughter  at  the  "Blue  Cut" 
— Peabody  again  on  the  war-path — Quantrell  and  his  men  sur- 
prised in  the  Low  House — The  desperate  combat — The  Guer- 
rillas again  disband — Quantrell  and  George  Todd,  disguised  as 
Federal  officers,  visit  Hannibal  and  St.  Joseph  in  quest  of 
ammunition  and  arms — Renewal  of  active  operations — An  inof- 
fensive Lieutenant — Southern  girls  captured  and  placed  in  front 
of  the  militia  column  as  they  hunt  for  Guerrillas — A  fight  on  the 
Prairie — Dave  Poole's  adventure  with  the  Plainsman — George 
Todd  and  his  men  ambush  a  flat-boat  on  the  Big  Blue — The  des- 
perate leap  into  the  river — A  Challenge — An  amusing  incident — 
Quantrell  wounded — Cole  Younger  performs  a  desperate  deed 
to  save  a  comrade •  •  •  68 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

INDEPENDENCE. 

Preparations  for  the  attack  on  Independence — Dick  Yager  teaches  a 
ScMitinel  how  to  shoot— Cole  Younger,  dressed  as  a  market 
woman,  visits  Independence — A  troublesome  sentinel  is  shot 
down— The  fight— Col.  Buell's  surrender 92 


X  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  EX. 

LONE   JACK. 

Coffee,  Crockett,  Shelby,  Jackman,  Tracy,  Hunter,  Hays — Prepara- 
tions for  the  attack — The  barred  banner  behind  the  hedgerow- 
Gallant  defence  by  Colonel  Foster — Tragic  death  of  a  young 
mother — Reorganization  of  Quantrell's  command — Hanging  Jay- 
hawkers — An  old  man's  plea  for  his  boy — Desperate  adventure 
of  Scott,  Haller,  Younger,  Whitsett  and  Poole — Narrow  escape 
of  George  Shepherd — Rifle  pits — Combats  with  militia  and 
Jayhawkers — John  C.  Moore  rescues  a  friend — Unfortunate 
expedition  of  Captain  Harrison.  .  .  .  .  ,  .  100 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE   MARCH   SOUTH. 

A  smiling  stranger  attempts  to  assassinate  Quantrell — Is  detected 
and  hung— Cole  Younger's  Winter  campaign — Robbery  and  hor- 
rible murder  of  Colonel  Henry  Younger  by  Jennison's  men — 
Persecution  and  death  of  Mrs.  Younger — John  Younger  hanged 
and  beaten  by  a  mob — Cole  Younger  has  a  "little  fun" — His 
Christinas  raid  into  Kansas  City — Winter  Quarters — The  traitor 
— A  surprise  and  a  desperate  fight — Dangerous  descent  of  a 
bluff— Fi^ht  at  Little  Blue — An  old  negro  woman  saves  Cole 
Younger 's  life •  ,  128 

CHAPTER  XI. 

QUANTRELL  VISITS   RICHMOND. 

His  memorable  interview  with  the  Confederate  Secretary  of  War — 
Capture  of  the  steamer  "Sara  Gaty,"  and  intrepidity  of  Captain 
McCloy — Bill  Anderson — The  murder  of  his  sisters  transforms 
the  quiet  working  man  into  an  incarnate  demon — The  solemn 
oath  by  the  bedside  of  his  sister — Jesse  and  Frank  James — An 
ambuscade — The  Guerrillas  attack  Plattsburg — Swimming  the 
Missouri  River — The  treacherous  quicksand — Jesse  James  goes 
on  a  Romantic  Expedition — A  Tavern  that  was  "full" — Todd 
lies  in  wait  for  a  Company  of  Red  Legs — Quantrell  carries  the 
war  into  Kansas.  .  ...•••••  16$ 

CHAPTER   XII. 

LAWRENCE. 

The  gathering  of  the  clans— "Lawrence  or  Hell"— The  black  flag 
unfurled — The  march  to  Lawrence — A  romantic  incident— The 
attack — A  day  of  slaughter — Incidents  of  the  massacre,  etc.— 
The  retreat  back  to  Missouri — The  torch  and  the  revolver— 
An  incident  of  gallantry,  poetry  and  mystery — A  list  of  those 
Who  went  to  Lawrence IBS 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

A   COUNTER-BLOW. 

General  Order  No.   11— Schofield,  Ewing  and  Bingham— Scalping 


CONTENTS  X1 

begins — A  brave  old  man  whose  "time  had  come'* — Frank 
James,  Poole  and  others  have  a  romantic  adventure — A  young 
soldier  in  a  bad  fix — How  Frank  James  did  not  shoot  him — 
"Boys  and  babies  are  not  difficult  to  kill"— General  Blunt  almost 
falls  into  a  trap — Cole  Younger  charges  into  a  bayou  .  .  20$ 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

QUANTRELL  AGAIN. 

An  easy  capture  and  unjustifiable  killing — Quick  work  with  the 
militia — Quantrell  in  a  close  place — Safety  in  a  swamp — "A  pair 
that  beat  four  aces" — The  fight  at  Arrow  Rock — Quantrell  seeks 
rest  and  quiet  in  Howard  County — Attempt  to  arrest  Bill  An- 
derson and  his  men  by  Confederate  Soldiers — His  escape  and 
march  Northward — Coger  has  an  Adventure — Two  Foragers 
narrowly  escape  Death — A  Party  of  Guerrillas  attack  a  house  iu 
in  Kansas  City — Romantic  adventure  with  a  Mountain  Boomer 
— Arthur  McCoy  and  how  he  got  into  a  scrape — Adventures  of  a 
noted  Spy  and  Guerrilla — A  brave  German  and  his  pitchfork — 
Capt.  Lea  puts  a  stop  to  Cotton  speculating — Cole  Younger 
again •  .  .  .  226 

CHAPTER  XV. 

PREPARING  FOR  PRICE'S  RAH). 

Frank  and  Jesse  James  are  sent  on  an  errand— John  Thrailkill — Per- 
secution and  death  of  his  sweetheart  render  him  desperate,  and 
he  becomes  a  Guerrilla— Capture  of  Keytesville — Furious  attack 
on  Fayette — The  Centralia  Massacre — Anecdote  of  Major  Rol- 
lins— Guerrilla  operations  in  Howard  county,  .  •  .  •  .  288 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

AFTER   CENTRALIA. 

Peyton  Long  kills  a  courier  with  two  human  ears  in  his  pocket- 
Fights  with  the  Germans — Arthur  McCoy,  the  "Wild  Irishman" 
—Death  of  Todd— Death  of  Anderson— Jesse  James  shoots  a 
preacher — Is  afterward  shot  through  the  lungs  and  captured  — 
A  heroine — A  remarkable  pistol  shot — Closing  incidents  of  the 

Guerrilla  war, 811 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    DEATH   OF   QUANTRELL. 

The  march  from  Missouri  to  Kentucky— Interesting  adventures— A 
young  Lieutanent  gets  Quantrell  under  cover  of  a  Mississippi 
rifle— Wonderful  nerve  of  the  famous  Guerrilla— Blood-thirsty 
executions  —  Combats  and  skirmishes— Sue  Mundy— Death  of 

Quantrell. •       •       •        882 

CHAPTER  XVHI. 

AFTER    THE   WAR.  » 

The  James  and  Younger  boys— The  Guerrillas  in  Mexico— Numerous 
desperate  and  romantic  adventures 448 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

I  WRITE  of  an  organization  whose  history  might  well  have 
massacre  put  over  against  it  as  an  epitome.  I  do  not  say 
epitaph,  because  only  the  equable,  perhaps,  are  entitled  to  epi- 
taphs. He  who  wore  the  blue  or  the  gray — if  starred,  or  barred, 
or  epauletted — needed  simply  the  recognition  of  a  monument  to 
become  a  martyr.  But  the  Guerrilla 'had  no  graveyard.  What 
mutilation  spared,  the  potter's  field  finished.  No  cortege 
followed  the  corpse ;  beneath  the  folds  of  the  black  flag  there 
was  no  funeral.  Neither  prayer,  nor  plaint  of  priest,  nor  peni- 
tential pleading  went  up  for  the  wild  beast  dead  by  his  lair, 
hard  hunted  yet  splendid  at  last  in  the  hopeless  equanimity  of 
accepted  death.  But  the  wild  beast  was  human.  The  sky  was 
just  as  blue  for  him  ;  in  the  east  the  dawn  was  just  as  strange 
for  him  ;  the  tenderness  of  woman  was  just  as  soft  for  him  ;  the 
trysting  by  the  gate  was  just  as  dear  to  him  ;  the  cottage  hearth 
was  just  as  warm  for  him,  and  the  fields  beyond  the  swelling 
flood  were  j  ust  as  green  for  him,  as  though  upon  the  crest  of  the 
blithe  battle  he  had  ridden  down  to  the  guns  as  Cardigan  did, 
impatient  bugles  blowing  all  about  him — or,  scarfed  and 
plumed,  he  had  died  as  Pelham  died,  the  boy  cannonier— 

"Just  as  the  spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife 
With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer." 

Some  of  the  offspring  of  civil  war  are  monstrous.  The  priest 
who  slays,  the  church  which  becomes  a  fortress,  the  fusillade 
that  finishes  a  capitulation,  the  father  who  fires  at  his  son,  the 
child  who  denies  sepulchre  to  its  parent,  the  tiger  instinct  that 
slays  the  unresisting,  the  forgetfulness  of  age,  and  the  cruel 
blindness  that  cannot  see  the  pitifulness  of  woman — these  sprang 


14  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

from  the  loins  of  civil  war,  as  did  also  the  Guerrilla — full-armed, 
full-statured,  terrible !  His  mission  was  not  to  kill,  alone,  but 
to  terrify.  At  times  he  mingled  with  the  purr  of  the  tiger  the 
silkiness  of  the  kitten.  Hilarity  was  a  stage  in  the  m  iroh  he 
made  his  victim  take  to  the  scaffold.  Now  and  then  before  a 
fusillade  there  wus  a  frolic.  Harsh  words  were  heard  only  when 
from  the  midst  of  some  savage  melee  a  timid  comrade  broke 
away  or  bent  to  the  bullet  blast.  The  softer  the  caress  the 
surer  the  punishment.  The  science  of  killing  seemed  to  bring 
a  solace  with  it,  and  to  purr  also  meant  to  be  amiable.  Sharing 
his  blanket  like  Rhoderick  Dhu  shared  his  plaid,  on  the  morrow 
his  Coliantogle  Ford  was  the  contents  of  his  revolver. 

It  is  not  easy  to  analyze  this  species  of  murder,  all  the  more 
•certain  because  of  its  calculation.  The  time  to  refuse  quarter 
is  in  actual  conflict.  Conscience  then — a  sleepy  thing  in  civil 
war  at  best — is  rarely  aroused  in  time  to  become  aggressive. 
Through  the  smoke  and  the  dust  it  is  difficult  to  see  the  white, 
set  face  and  the  haunting  eyes  of  the  early  doomed.  In 
the  rain  of  the  rifle-balls,  what  matters  the  patter  of  a 
prayer  or  two?  Discrimination  and  desperation  are  not  apt  to 
ride  in  the  same  squadrons  together,  and  yet  the  Guerrilla,  with 
a  full  revolver,  has  been  known  to  take  possession  of  his  victim 
and  spare  him  afterwards.  Something,  no  matter  what — some 
memory  of  other  days,  some  wayward  freak,  some  passing 
fancy,  some  gentle  mood,  some  tender  influence  in  earth,  or  air, 
or  sky — made  him  merciful  when  he  meant  to  be  a  murderer. 

The  warfare  of  the  Guerrilla  was  the  warfare  of  the  fox  joined 
to  that  of  the  lion.  He  crept  from  the  rear,  and  he  dashed  from 
the  front.  If  the  ambuscade  hid  him,  as  at  Lone  Jack,  the 
noonday  sun  shone  down  full  upon  the  open  prairie  slaughter  of 
Centralia.  In  either  extreme  there  was  extermination.  Death, 
made  familiar  by  association,  merged  its  constraint  into  com- 
radeship, and  hid  at  the  bivouac  at  night  the  sword-blade  that 
was  to  be  so  fatal  in  the  morning.  Hence  all  the  roystering  in 
the  face  of  the  inevitable — all  that  recklessness  and  boisterous- 
ness  which  came  often  to  its  last  horse,  saddle  and  bridle,  but 
never  to  its  last  gallop  or  stratagem. 

There  are  things  and  men  one  recognizes  without  ever  having 
•seen  them.  The  Guerrilla  in  ambush  is  one  of  these.  Before  a 
battle  a  Guerrilla  takes  every  portion  of  his  revolver  apart  and 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          15 

lays  it  upon  a  white  shirt,  if  he  has  one,  as*darefully  as  a  surgeon 
places  his  instruments  on  a  white  towel.  In  addition,  he 
touches  each  piece  as  a  man  might  touch  the  thing  that  he 
loves.  The  words  of  command  are  given  in  low  tones,  as  if  in 
the  silence  there  might  be  found  something  in  mitigation  of  the 
assassination.  Again,  he  is  noisy  or  indifferent  to  his  purposes. 
He  acts  then  upon  the  belief  that  doomed  men,  whose  sense  of 
hearing  is  generally  developed  to  the  greatest  acuteness,  lose 
effect  in  this  advance  upon  the  unknown. 

And  how  patient  they  were — these  Guerrillas.  One  day,  two, 
three — a  couple  of  weeks  at  a  stretch — they  have  been  known 
to  watch  a  road — cold  it  may  be,  hungry  most  generally,  inex- 
orable, alert  as  the  red  deer  and  crouching  as  the  panther.  At 
last  a  sudden  ring  of  rifles,  a  sudden  uprearing  of  helpless 
steeds  with  dead  men  down  under  their  feet,  and  the  long  vigil 
was  over,  the  long  ambuscade  broken  by  a  holocaust. 

Much  horse-craft  was  also  theirs.  Born  as  it  were  to  the 
bare-back,  the  saddle  only  made  it  the  more  difficult  to  unseat 
them.  Create  a  Centaur  out  of  a  Bucephalus,  and  the  idea  is 
fixed  of  their  swiftness  and  prowess.  Something  also  of 
Rarey's  system  must  have  been  theirs,  as  a  matter  of  course,  for 
the  Guerrilla  was  always  good  to  his  horse.  He  would  often  go 
unfed  himself  that  his  horse  might  have  corn,  and  frequently 
take  all  the  chances  of  being  shot  himself  that  his  horse  might 
come  out  of  a  close  place  unhurt.  In  situations  where  a  neigh 
would  amount  almost  to  annihilation,  even  so  much  as  a  whinny 
was  absolutely  unknown.  Danger  blended  the  instinct  of  the  one 
with  the  intelligence  of  the  other.  For  each  there  was  the  same 
intuition.  Well  authenticated  instances  are  on  record  of  a 
Guerrilla's  horse  standing  guard  for  his  master,  and  on  more 
than  one  occasion,  when  cut  off  from  his  steed  and  forced  to 
take  shelter  from  pursuit  in  fastnesses  well  nigh  inaccessible, 
the  Guerrilla  has  been  surprised  at  the  sudden  appearance  of  his 
horse,  no  more  desirous  than  himself  of  unconditional  captivity. 
Much,  therefore,  of  humanity  must  have  entered  into  the  rela- 
tionship of  the  rider  with  his  steed.  He  had  to  blanket  him  of 
nights  when  the  frost  was  falling  and  the  north  wind  cut  as  a 
knife;  he  had  to  talk  low  to  him,  rest  him  when  he  was  tired, 
feed  him  when  he  was  hungry,  spare  the  spur  when  there  was  no 
need  for  it,  slacken  the  girth  when  the  column  was  at  rest,  cast 


16  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

aside  as  inhuman  the  accursed  Spanish  bit,  and  do  generally 
unto  him  as  the  Guerrilla  would  have  been  done  by  had  nature 
reversed  the  order  of  the  animals  and  put  a  crupper  in  lieu  of 
a  coat.  Kindness  makes  cavalry.  Murat  said  once  that  the 
best  among  the  cuirassiers  were  those  who  embraced  their  horses 
before  they  did  their  mistresses.  He  found  a  trooper  walking, 
one  day,  who  was  leading  a  horse.  Both  were  wounded,  the 
dragoon  a  little  the  worst.  "  Why  do  you  not  ride?"  asked  the 
Prince.  The  soldier  saluted  and  answered:  " Because  my 
horse  has  been  shot."  "  And  you?"  "  I  have  been  shot,  too, 
but  I  can  talk  and  my  horse  cannot.  If  he  could,  maybe  he 
would  say  that  he  is  harder  hit  than  I  am."  Murat  naade  the 
cuirassier  a  captain. 

The  Guerrilla  also  had  a  dialect.  In  challenging  an  advanc- 
ing enemy  the  cry  of  the  regular  was:  "  Who  goes  there?"  That 
of  the  Guerrilla:  "Who  are  you?"  The  regular  repeated  the 
question  thrice  before  firing;  the  Guerrilla  only  once.  No 
higher  appreciation  had  ever  desperate  courage,  or  devoted 
comradeship,  or  swift  work  in  pitiless  conflict,  or  furious  gallop, 
or  marvelous  endurance,  than  the  Guerrilla's  favorite  summing 
up:  "Good  boy  to  the  last."  If  upon  a  monument  he  had 
leave  to  write  a  folio,  not  a  word  more  would  be  added  to  the 
epitaph.  Sometimes  the  Guerrilla's  dialect  was  picturesque; 
at  other  times  monosyllabic.  After  Lawrence,  and  when  Lane 
was  pressing  hard  in  pursuit,  a  courier  from  the  rear  rode  hur- 
riedly up  to  Quantrell  and  reported  the  situation.  "How  do 
they  look?"  enquired  the  chief.  "Like  thirsty  buffaloes  making 
for  a  water  course."  "Can't  the  rear  guard  check  them?" 
"Can  a  grasshopper  throw  a  locomotive  off  the  track,  Captain 
Quantrell?" 

"Once,"  relates  a  Lieutenant  of  a  Kansas  regiment,  "I  was 
shot  down  by  a  Guerrilla  and  captured.  I  knew  it  was 'touch  and 
go  with  me,  and  so  I  said  what  prayers  I  remembered  and  made 
what  Masonic  signs  I  was  master  of.  The  fellow  who  rode  up 
to  me  first  was  stalwart  and  swarthy,  cool,  devilish-looking  and 
evil-eyed.  Our  dialogue  was  probably  one  of  the  briefest  on 
record,  and  certainly  to  me  one  of  the  most  satisfactory.  'Are 
you  a  Mason?*  he  asked.  'Yes.'  'Are  you  a  Kansas  man?' 
'Yes.'  4G — d  d — n  you!'  This  did  not  require  an  answer, 
it  appeared  to  me,  and  so  I  neither  said  one  thing  nor  another. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          17 

He  took  hold  of  his  pistol  and  I  shut  my  eyes.  Something 
began  to  burn  my  throat.  Presently  he  said  again,  as  if  he  had 
been  debating  the  question  of  life  and  death  rapidly  in  his  own 
mind:  'You  are  young,  ain't  you?'  'About  twenty -five.' 
'Married?'  'Yes.f  'Hate  to  die,  I  reckon?'  'Yes.'  'You  are 
free!'  I  tried  to  thank  him,  although  I  did  not  at  first  realize 
his  actions  or  understand  his  words.  He  got  mad  in  a  moment, 
and  his  wicked  eyes  fairly  blazed.  'You  are  free,  I  told  you  I 
D — n  your  thanks  and  d — n  you !'  "  "  From  that  day  to  this," 
the  Lieutenant  continued,  "I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  my 
wife  saved  me  or  the  Masons." 

Neither ;  and  yet  the  Guerrilla  himself  might  not  have  been 
able  to  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  fate,  or  a  passing  tenderness,  or 
something  in  the  prisoner's  face  that  recalled  a  near  one  or  a 
dear  one.  Some  few  among  them,  but  only  a  few,  believed 
that  retaliation  should  be  a  punishment,  not  a  vengeance ;  and 
these,  when  an  execution  was  unavoidable,  gave  to  it  the 
solemnity  of  the  law  and  the  condonement  of  civilization.  The 
majority,  however,  killed  always  and  without  ado.  They  had 
passwords  that  only  the  initiated  understood,  and  signals  which 
meant  everything  or  nothing.  A  night  bird  was  a  messenger ;  a 
day  bird  a  courier.  To  their  dialect  they  had  added  woods- 
craft,  and  to  the  caution  of  the  proscribed  men  the  cunning  of 
the  Indian.  They  knew  the  names  or  the  numbers  of  the 
pursuing  regiments  from  the  shoes  of  their  horses,  and  told  the 
nationality  of  troops  by  the  manner  in  which  twigs  were  broken 
along  the  line  of  march.  They  could  see  in  the  night  like  other 
beasts  of  prey,  and  hunted  most  when  it  was  darkest.  No 
matter  for  a  road  so  only  there  was  a  trail,  and  no  matter  for  a 
trail  so  only  there  was  a  direction.  When  there  was  no  wind, 
and  when  the  clouds  hid  the  sun  or  the  stars,  they  traveled  by 
the  moss  on  the  trees.  In  the  day  time  they  looked  for  this 
moss  with  their  eyes,  in  the  night  time  with  their  hands.  Living 
much  in  fastnesses,  they  were  rarely  surprised,  while  solitude 
developed  and  made  more  acute  every  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion. By  degrees  a  caste  began  to  be  established.  Men  stood 
forth  as  leaders  by  the  unmistakable  right  of  superior  address 
and  undaunted  courage.  There  was  a  kind  of  an  aristocracy  of 
daring  wherein  the  humblest  might  win  a  crown  or  establish  a 
dynasty.  Respect  for  personal  prowess  begat  discipline,  and 
2 


18  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OH 

discipline — strengthened  by  the  terrible  pressure  of  outside 
circumstances — kept  peace  in  the  midst  of  an  organization 
ostensibly  without  a  government  and  without  a  flag.  Internal 
feuds  came  rarely  to  blows,  and  individual  quarrels  went 
scarcely  ever  beyond  the  interests  of  the  contending  principals. 
Free  to  come  and  go ;  bound  by  no  enlistment  and  dependent 
upon  no  bounty ;  hunted  by  one  nation  and  apologized  for  by 
the  other ;  prodigal  of  life  and  property ;  foremost  in  every 
foray  and  last  in  every  rout ;  content  to  die  savagely  and  at  bay 
when  from  under  the  dead  steed  the  wounded  rider  could  not 
extricate  himself ;  merciful  rarely  and  merciless  often ;  loving 
liberty  in  a  blind,  idolatrous  fashion,  half  reality  and  half 
superstition ;  holding  no  crime  as  bad  as  that  of  cowardice ; 
courteous  to  women  amid  all  the  wild  license  of  pillage  and 
slaughter;  steadfast  as  faith  to  comradeship  or  friend;  too 
serious  for  boastfulness  and  too  near  the  unknown  to  deceive 
themselves  with  vanity ;  eminently  practical  because  constantly 
environed ;  starved  to-day  and  feasted  to-morrow ;  victorious  in 
this  combat  or  decimated .  in  that ;  receiving  no  quarter  and 
giving  none ;  astonishing  pursuers  by  the  swiftness  of  a  retreat, 
or  shocking  humanity  by  the  completeness  of  a  massacre ;  a 
sable  fringe  on  the  blood-red  garments  of  civil  war,  or  a 
perpetual  cut-throat  in  ambush  in  the  midst  of  contending 
Christians,  is  it  any  wonder  that  in  time  the  Guerrilla  organiza- 
tion came  to  have  captains,  and  leaders,  and  discipline,  and  a 
language,  and  fastnesses,  and  hiding  places,  and  a  terrible 
banner  unknown  to  the  winds,  and  a  terrible  name  that  still 
lives  as  a  wrathful  and  accusing  thing  from  the  Iowa  line  to  the 
Pacific  Ocean? 


CHAPTER  H. 

CAUSES  THAT  PRODUCED  THE  GUERRILLA. 

"T~T  IS  the  province  of  history  to  deal  with  results,  not  to  con- 
-A-  demn  the  phenomena  which  produce  them.  Nor  has  it  the 
right  to  decry  the  instruments  Providence  always  raises  up  in 
the  midst  of  great  catastrophes  to  restore  the  equilibrium  of 
eternal  justice.  Civil  war  might  well  have  made  the  Guerrilla, 
but  only  the  excesses  of  civil  war  could  have  made  him  the  un- 
tamable and  unmerciful  creature  that  history  finds  him.  When 
he  first  went  into  the  war  he  was  somehow  imbued  with  the  old- 
fashioned  belief  that  soldiering  meant  fighting  and  that  fighting 
meant  killing.  He  had  his  own  ideas  of  soldiering,  however, 
and  desired  nothing  so  much  as  to  remain  at  home  and  meet  its 
despoilers  upon  his  own  premises.  Not  naturally  cruel,  and 
averse  to  invading  the  territory  of  any  other  people,  he  could  not 
understand  the  patriotism  of  those  who  invaded  his  own  territory. 
Patriotism,  such  as  he  was  required  to  profess,  could  not  spring 
up  in  the  market-place  at  the  bidding  of  Red  Leg  or  Jayhawker. 
He  believed,  indeed,  that  the  patriotism  of  Jim  Lane  and  Jen- 
nison  was  merely  a  highway  robbery  transferred  from  the 
darkness  to  the  dawn,  and  he  believed  the  truth.  Neither  did 
the  Guerrilla  become  merciless  all  of  a  sudden.  Pastoral  in 
many  cases  by  profession,  and  reared  among  the  bashful  and 
timid  surroundings  of  agricultural  life,  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
tiger  that  was  in  him  until  death  had  been  dashed  against  his 
eyes  in  numberless  and  brutal  ways,  and  until  the  blood  of  his 
own  kith  and  kin  had  been  sprinkled  plentifully  upon  things 
that  his  hands  touched,  and  things  that  entered  into  his  daily 
existence.  And  that  fury  of  ideas  also  came  to  him  slowly 
which  is  more  implacable  than  the  fury  of  men,  for  men  have 
heart,  and  opinion  has  none.  It  took  him  likewise  some  time 


20  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

to  learn  that  the  Jayhawker's  system  of  saving  the  Union  was  a 
system  of  brutal  force,  which  bewailed  not  even  that  which  it 
crushed ;  that  it  belied  its  doctrine  by  its  tyranny ;  stained  its 
arrogated  right  by  its  violence,  and  dishonored  its  vaunted 
struggles  by  its  executions.  But  blood  is  as  contagious  as  air. 
The  fever  of  civil  war  has  its  delirium.  When  the  Guerrilla 
awoke  he  was  a  giant !  He  took  in,  as  it  were,  and  at  a'  single 
glance,  all  the  immensity  of  the  struggle.  He  saw  that  he  was 
hunted  and  proscribed ;  that  he  had  neither  a  flag  nor  a  govern- 
ment ;  that  the  rights  and  the  amenities  of  civilized  warfare  were 
not  to  be  his ;  that  a  dog's  death  was  certain  if  he  surrendered 
even  in  the  extremest  agony  of  battle ;  that  the  house  which 
sheltered  him  had  to  be  burnt ;  the  father  who  succored  him 
nad  to  be  butchered;  the  mother  who  prayed  for  him  had  to  be 
insulted ;  the  sister  who  carried  food  to  him  had  to  be  impris- 
oned ;  the  neighborhood  which  witnessed  his  combats  had  to  be 
laid  waste ;  the  comrade  -shot  down  by  his  side  had  to  be  put  to 
death  as  a  wild  beast — and  he  lifted  up  the  black  flag  in  self- 
defence  and  fought  as  became  a  free  man  and  a  hero. 

Much  obloquy  has  been  cast  upon  the  Guerrilla  organization 
because  in  its  name  bad  men  plundered  the  helpless,  pillaged 
friend  and  foe  alike,  assaulted  non-combatants  and  murdered  the 
unresisting  and  the  innocent.  Such  devil's  work  was  not  Guer- 
rilla work.  It  fitted  all  too  well  the  hands  of  those  cowards 
crouching  in  the  rear  of  either  army  and  courageous  only  where 
women  defended  what  remained  to  themselves  and  their  chil- 
dren. Desperate  and  remorseless  as  he  undoubtedly  was,  the 
Guerrilla  saw  shining  down  upon  his  pathway  a  luminious  patriot- 
ism, and  he  followed  it  eagerly  that  he  might  kill  in  the  name  of 
God  and  his  country.  The  nature  of  his  warfare  made  him  respon- 
sible of  course  for  many  monstrous  things  he  had  no  personal 
share  in  bringing  about.  Denied  a  hearing  at  the  bar  of  public 
opinion,  the  bete  noir  of  all  the  loyal  journalists,  painted  blacker 
than  ten  devils,  and  given  a  countenance  that  was  made  to 
retain  some  shadow  of  all  the  death  agonies  he  had  seen,  is  it 
strange  in  the  least  that  his  fiendishness  became  omnipresent  as 
well  as  omnipotent?  To  justify  one  crime  on  the  part  of  a  Fed- 
eral soldier,  five  crimes  more  cruel  still  were  laid  at  the  door  of 
the  Guerrilla.  His  long  gallop  not  only  tired  but  infuriated  his 
hunters.  That  savage  standing  at  bay  and  dying  always  as  a 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         21 

wolf  dies  when  barked  at  by  hounds  and  bludgeoned  by  coun- 
trymen, made  his  enemies  fear  him  and  hate  him.  Hence  from 
all  their  bomb-proofs  his  slanderers  fired  silly  lies  at  long  range, 
and  put  afloat  unnatural  stories  that  hurt  him  only  as  it  deep- 
ened the  savage  intensity  of  an  already  savage  strife.  Save  in 
rare  and  memorable  instances,  the  Guerrilla  murdered  only 
when  fortune  in  open  and  honorable  battle  gave  into  his  hands 
some  victims  who  were  denied  that  death  in  combat  which  they 
afterward  found  by  ditch  or  lonesome  roadside.  Man  for  man, 
he  put  his  life  fairly  on  the  cast  of  the  war  dice,  and  died  when 
the  need  came  as  the  red  Indian  dies,  stoical  and  grim  as 
a  stone. 

As  strange  as  it  may  seem  the  perilous  fascination  of  fighting 
under  a  black  flag — where  the  wounded  could  have  neither  sur- 
geon nor  hospital,  and  where  all  that  remained  to  the  prisoners 
was  the  absolute  certainty  of  speedy  death — attracted  a  number 
of  young  men  to  the  various  Guerrilla  bands,  gently  nurtured, 
born  to  higher  destinies,  capable  of  sustained  exertion  in  any 
scheme  or  enterprise,  and  fit  for  callings  high  up  in  the  scale  of 
science  or  philosophy.  Others  came  who  had  deadly  wrongs  to 
avenge,  and  these  gave  to  all  their  combats  that  sanguinary  hue 
which  still  remains  a  part  of  the  Guerrilla's  legacy.  Almost 
from  the  first  a  large  majority  of  Quantrell's  original  command 
had  over  them  the  shadow  of  some  terrible  crime.  This  one 
recalled  a  father  murdered,  this  one  a  brother  waylaid  and  shot, 
this  one  a  house  pillaged  and  burnt,  this  one  a  relative  assassi- 
nated, this  one  a  grievous  insult  while  at  peace  at  home,  this 
one  a  robbery  of  all  his  earthly  possessions,  this  one  the  force 
which  compelled  him  to  witness  the  brutal  treatment  of  a  mother 
or  sister,  this  one  was  driven  away  from  his  own  like  a  thief  in 
the  night,  this  one  was  threatened  with  death  for  opinion's 
sake,  this  one  was  proscribed  at  the  instance  of  some  designing 
neighbor,  this  one  was  arrested  wantonly  and  forced  to  do  the 
degrading  work  of  a  menial ;  while  all  had  more  or  less  of  wrath 
laid  up  against  the  day  when  they  were  to  meet  face  to  face  and 
hand  to  hand  those  whom  they  had  good  cause  to  regard  as  the  liv- 
ing embodiment  of  unnumbered  wrongs.  Honorable  soldiers  in 
the  Confederate  army — amenable  to  every  generous  impulse  and 
exact  in  the  performance  of  every  manly  duty — deserted  even 
the  ranks  which  they  had  adorned  and  became  desperate  Guer- 


22  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

rillas  because  the  home  they  had  left  had  been  given  to  the 
flames,  or  a  gray-haired  father  shot  upon  his  own  hearth-stone. 
They  wanted  to  avoid  the  uncertainty  of  regular  battle  and 
know  by  actual  results  how  many  died  as  a  propitiation  or  a 
sacrifice.  Every  other  passion  became  subsidiary  to  that  of 
revenge.  They  sought  personal  encounters  that  their  own 
handiwork  might  become  unmistakably  manifest.  Those  who 
died  by  other  agencies  than  their  own  were  not  counted  in  the 
general  summing  up  of  a  fight,  nor  were  the  solacements  of  any 
victory  sweet  to  them  unless  they  had  the  knowledge  of  being 
important  factors  in  its  achievment.  As  this  class  of  Guerrillas 
increased,  the  warfare  of  the  border  became  necessarily  more 
cruel  and  unsparing.  Where  at  first  there  was  only  killing  in 
ordinary  battle,  there  became  to  be  no  quarter  shown.  The 
wounded  of  the  enemy  next  felt  the  might  of  this  individual 
vengeance — acting  through  a  community  of  bitter  memories — 
and  from  every  stricken  field  there  began,  by  and  by,  to  come 
up  the  substance  of  this  awful  bulletin :  Dead  such  and  such  a 
number — wounded  none.  The  war  had  then  passed  into  its  fever 
heat,  and  thereafter  the  gentle  and  the  merciful,  equally  with 
the  harsh  and  the  revengeful,  spared  nothing  clad  in  blue  that 
could  be  captured. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AMERICAN   GUERRILLAS    COMPARED   WITH   THOSE   OF  OTHEB 
COUNTRIES. 

rriHERE  have  been  Guerrillas  in  other  countries,  notably  in 
J-  France,  Spain,  Italy  and  Mexico.  Before  the  days  of 
breech-loaders  and  revolvers,  and  in  fields  of  operation  almost 
wholly  unfit  for  cavalry,  it  was  easy  warfare  for  irregular  bands 
to  lie  along  mountainous  roads,  or  hide  themselves  from  ordina- 
ry pursuit  in  tangled  thickets  and  stretches  of  larger  timber. 
They  fought  when  they  felt  like  it,  and  were  more  formidable 
in  reputation  than  in  prowess.  The  American's  capacity  for 
war  can  be  estimated  in  a  great  degree  by  the  enterprising  na- 
ture of  his  individual  efforts.  If,  as  a  Guerrilla,  he  can  guard 
defiles,  surprise  cantonments,  capture  convoys,  disappear  in  the 
mountains,  make  at  times  and  before  superior  numbers  the 
difficulty  not  so  much  in  fighting  him  as  in  finding  him,  discover 
and  hold  his  own  passes,  learn  the  secrets  of  nature  so  that  the 
rain  or  the  snow  storm  will  be  his  ally  and  the  fog  his  friend — be 
sure  the  seeds  are  there  for  a  harvest  of  armed  men — no  matter 
whether  regular  or  irregular — that  need  only  the  cultivation  of 
sensible  discipline  to  become  the  most  remarkable  on  earth. 
Essentially  a  nation  of  shop-keepers,  trades-people  and  farmers 
before  the  great  civil  struggle  began,  the  rapidity  with  which 
armies  were  mobilized  and  made  into  veterans,  was  marvelous. 
Nothing  like  a  Guerrilla  organization  had  ever  before  existed  in 
the  history  of  the  country,  and  yet  the  strife  was  scarcely  two 
months  old  before  prominent  in  the  field  were  leaders  of  Guer- 
rilla bands  more  desperate  than  those  of  La  Vendee,  and  organ- 
izers and  fighters  more  to  be  relied  upon  and  more  blood-thirsty 
than  the  Fra  Diavolas  of  Italy,  or  the  El  Empecinados  of  Spain. 
La  Vendee,  among  other  things,  was  the  war  of  a  republio 


24  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

upon  a  religion;  of  Marat,  which  meant  pandemonium,  upon 
the  Pope,  who  meant  Christ.  The  cities  fought  the  country, 
the  forests  were  attacked  by  the  plains.  In  the  gloom  of  the 
fastnesses  giants  were  developed.  Beneath  the  mask  of  the 
executioner  was  the  cowl  of  the  monk,  and  behind  the  judge  of 
a  court  martial  sat  the  implacable  embodiment  of  Jacobin  sur- 
veillance. On  one  side  cynicism,  on  the  other  ferocity;  on  one 
side  blind  fury  buttressed  upon  fanaticism,  on  the  other  the  air- 
iness of  a  skepticism  which  denied  the  priesthood  that  it  might 
succeed  to  its  possessions.  From  amid  this  chaos  of  contend- 
ing devils — preying  alike  upon  the  province  which  held  to  the 
crown,  or  the  city  which  had  adoration  for  the  Directory,  La 
Rochejacquelin  was  born.  He  was  an  inferior  Quantrell  wear- 
ing a  short  sword  instead  of  a  six-shooter.  He  went  often  to 
mass,  and  on  the  eve  of  every  battle  he  took  the  sacrament. 
Sometimes  he  fought  well  and  sometimes  badly.  A  word  un- 
known to  border  warfare  belonged  to  his  vocabulary,  and  his- 
tory has  repeated  it  often  when  writing  of  Hoche  and  Houchard. 
It  was  Panic.  Victory  was  near  to  La  Rochejacquelin  often, 
but  just  as  his  hands  opened  wide  as  it  were  to  lay  hold  thereon 
and  close  again  in  exultation,  Panic  dashed  them  aside  as 
though  smitten  by  a  sudden  sword-blade.  It  was  so  at  Mar- 
tigne  Briant,  and  Vihiers,  at  Vue  and  at  Bonquenay.  These 
desperate  Guerrillas  of  La  Vendee — these  monks  in  harness 
and  high  priests  in  uniform — made  bonnets  rouge  out  of  buck- 
ram, and  fled  from  imaginary  grenadiers  who  were  only  shocks 
of  wheat.  It  was  also  a  war  of  proclamations.  In  the  charges 
and  counter-charges,  the  appeals  on  the  one  side  to  the  good 
God  and  on  the  other  to  the  omnipotent  Committee  of  Public 
Safety,  many  a  forlorn  Frenchman,  given  over  to  contemplated 
death,  slipped  through  everybody's  fingers;  another  evidence 
of  palpable  weakness  which  was  as  foreign  to  the  Missourian's 
executive  economy  as  the  word  panic  to  his  vocabulary. 

Michael  Pezza,  surnamed  Fra  Diavolo,  from  his  diabolic  cun- 
ning in  escaping  all  pursuit,  was  an  Italian,  half  patriot  and 
half  brigand.  Much  of  his  reputation  is  legendary,  but  for  all 
that  it  has  inspired  one  or  two  operas  and  a  dozen  romances. 
He  was  to  Italy  what  El  Empecinado  was  to  Spain,  Canaris  to 
Greece,  and  Abd-el-Kader  to  Africa.  Born  amid  the  moun- 
tains, he  knew  the  crags  by  their  sinister  faces,  and  the  precipi- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          25 

ces  from  the  roar  of  their  cataracts.  Before  he  fought  Napo- 
leon he  had  stopped  travelers  upon  the  highway.  When  he  had 
use  for  the  robber,  however,  Ferdinand  IV.  made  him  a  colonel 
and  a  duke  and  set  him  to  guard  the  passes  of  the  Apennines. 
A  dozen  audacious  deeds  will  cover  the  space  of  his  whole 
career — one  which  was  unquestionably  bold  but  scarcely  enter- 
prising. All  who  spoke  his  language  were  his  friends.  He  had 
eyries  like  the  eagle,  and  fought  fights  where,  when  he  was  shot 
at,  it  was  declared  to  be  like  shooting  at  the  sky.  Beyond  a 
convoy  or  two  made  to  lose  their  property,  and  a  straggling 
band  or  two  cut  to  pieces,  he  did  no  devil's  work  in  a  twelve- 
month of  splendid  opportunity  for  all  who  hated  the  invaders 
and  saw  from  their  mountain  fastnesses  the  very  blackness  of 
darkness  overshadow  a  land  that  wore  perpetually  the  garments 
of -Paradise.  Finally  a  French  detachment — especially  charged 
to  look  after  the  much  dreaded  Guerrilla — struck  his  trail  and 
followed  it  to  the  end.  The  French  numbered  eight  hundred, 
the  Italians  fifteen.  Take  Quantrell,  or  Todd,  or  Anderson, 
or  Pool,  or  Coleman  Younger,  or  Jesse  James,  or  Haller,  or 
Frank  James,  with  fifteen  hundred  men,  and  put  to  catch  them 
eight  hundred  Federals !  What  analyst  now,  in  the  light  of  past 
history,  will  say  that  out  of  the  eight  hundred  six  might  safely 
return  alive  to  tell  the  story  of  the  slaughter. 

The  hunt  went  on,  the  hunted  having  every  advantage  over 
the  hunters.  They  saw  him,  touched  him,  had  him ;  suddenly 
nobody  was  there.  He  did  not  fight ;  he  only  hid  himself  and 
ran  away.  Nothing  stopped,  the  pursuit,  however.  Neither 
mountain  torrent,  nor  full-fed  river,  nor  perpendicular  rock,  nor 
tempests  by  night,  nor  hurricanes  by  day.  When  brought  to 
bay  at  last,  Fra  Diavola  did  what  never  Guerrilla  did  yet  of 
Anglo  Saxon  birth  or  raising,  he  disguised  himself  as  a  charcoal 
dealer,  mounted  an  ass,  deserted  his  followers,  and  sought  to 
creep  out  of  the  environment  as  best  he  could.  He  did  not  suc- 
ceed, but  the  effort  exhibited  the  standard  of  the  man. 

The  list  is  a  long  one  to  choose  from,  but  apposite  selections 
are  difficult  to  handle.  At  every  step  taken  towards  a  contrast 
between  a  Missouri  Guerrilla  and  a  Guerrilla  of  foreign  reputa- 
tion, there  is  an  obstacle.  Nowhere  exists  the  same  civilization. 
In  no  single  instance  are  the  surroundings  and  the  institutions 
the  same.  One  common  bond,  however,  i*  the  fiery  crucible  of 


26  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

civil  war,  and  by  this  and  from  out  this  must  they  come  to  judg- 
ment, standing  or  falling. 

There  was  El  Empecinado,  the  Spaniard.  He  did  in  the  Py- 
renees what  Fra  Diavolo  did  in  the  Apennines.  Each  system 
was  the  same — perpetual  skirmishes,  mostly  unimportant,  and 
sudden  disappearance.  Both  fought  the  French.  The  nobility 
were  for  Napoleon,  the  peasants  against  him,  and  this  added 
intensity  to  the  strife.  But  to  beat  El  Empecinado  was  to 
accomplish  nothing.  His  band  scattered  on  all  sides  into  fast- 
nesses where  it  was  impossible  to  find  them,  and  reorganized  at 
some  place  in  the  mountains  which  they  had  intrenched,  provis- 
ioned, and  made  inaccessible.  He  was  the  creature  of  the 
Junta,  and  the  Junta  was  the  hunted  mother  of  liberty  In  Spain. 
Hurled  from  village  to  village,  threatened  hourly,  attacked  at 
all  times,  having  the  chief  seat  of  its  administration  in  some 
ruined  chapel,  some  hovel  in  the  shrubbery,  or  some  hole  in  the 
ground,  it  decreed,  notwithstanding  it  all,  the  independence  of 
Spain.  But  in  fight  after  fight  El  Empecinado  was  so  badly 
worsted  that  he  began  to  be  accused  of  treason  by  his  own  men 
and  suspected  by  the  Junta.  Finally,  and  after  many  races, 
and  chases,  and  ambuscades,  he  was  brought  to  his  last  assur- 
ance and  stratagem  at  Cifuentes.  The  war  of  the  thickets  and 
the  ravines  was  over.  Having  in  his  favor  the  enormous  advan- 
tage of  four  men  to  his  adversary's  one,  he  stood  forth  in  battle 
against  General  Hugo,  of  the  French  grenadiers,  and  was 
destroyed.  At  Centralia,  and  with  the  odds  reversed  and 
largely  on  the  other  side,  George  Todd  rode  over  and  shot 
down  a  superior  column  of  Federal  infantry  massed  upon  open 
ground  and  standing  in  line,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  with  fixed 
bayonets  and  loaded  muskets. 

There  were  the  bands  of  Mina  and  El  Pastor,  who  instead  of 
being  Guerrillas  were  barbarians.  By  these  neither  age  nor  sex 
was  spared.  Not  content  with  killing  women  and  children, 
they  tortured  them ;  they  burned  them  alive.  The  elder  Mina 
had  carried  before  him  in  battle  a  flag  bearing  the  device  of  vae 
victis.  As  he  was  more  formidable  and  unsparing  than  either 
El  Empecinado  or  Fra  Diavolo,  he  was  to  the  same  extent  more 
popular.  Success,  however  unsatisfactory,  made  him  dangerous 
in  more  ways  than  one  to  the  invaders.  Germans,  English, 
Italians,  and  even  French,  deserted  to  him.  In  the  course  of 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          27 

five  days  fifteen  hussars,  twenty  artillerymen,  a  company  of 
British  sappers,  and  fourteen  French  foot  soldiers  came  over  to 
his  banner.  Of  course  none  of  these  could  ever  surrender,  and 
became  in  time  the  most  ferocious  of  this  ferocious  band.  Under- 
neath all  the  terrible  vengeance  taken  by  these  Guerrillas  there 
was  the  undying  consciousness  of  terrible  wrongs.  Fra  Diavola 
had  been  tied  up  in  a  public  market  place  and  scourged  brutally 
by  the  public  executioner ;  El  Empecinado  had  had  his  ears  slit  -r 
the  younger  Mina's  mistress  had  been  outraged  before  his  eyes, 
her  piercing  cries  haunting  his  sleep  for  months  thereafter ;  El 
Pastor's  old  father,  in  returning  late  from  a  country  town,  had 
been  first  robbed  and  then  beaten  to  death;  and  Xavier,  the 
youngest  of  the  Junta's  bloody  instruments  and  the  most  chiv- 
alrous, knew  scarcely  anything  of  the  war  until  he  had  barely 
escaped  assassination  with  his  life.  Does  not  history  repeat 
itself?  From  the  brooding  vision  of  Quantrell  there  was  never 
absent  the  white,  set  face  of  a  murdered  brother.  To  make 
tense  the  nerves  and  steel  the  heart  of  Cole  man  Younger,  there, 
wet  with  his  life's  blood,  were  the  white  hairs  of  a  loved  father 
slain  upon  the  highway.  Anderson  remembered  to  his  dying 
day  one  beautiful  sister  buried  beneath  the  falling  walls  of  her 
prison  house,  and  another  so  disfigured  that  when  those  dearest 
to  her  dug  her  out  from  the  wreck  they  did  not  know  her. 

Of  the  Minas  there  were  two — uncle  and  nephew.  It  wa» 
the  strange  destiny  of  the  elder  to  have  to  encounter  in  his  own 
field  of  operations  a  woman.  Unnatural  as  it  may  appear  the 
most  ferocious  band  which  infested  Biscay  was  commanded  by  a 
woman  named  Martina.  So  indiscriminating  and  unrelenting 
was  this  female  monster  in  her  murder  of  friends  and  foes 
alike,  that  Mina  felt  himself  compelled  to  resort  to  extermina- 
tion. Surprised  with  the  greater  part  of  her  following,  not  a 
soul  escaped  to  tell  the  story  of  the  massacre.  One  wild  beast 
had  devoured  another,  and  that  was  all ! 

Treachery  of  comrades  is  a  somewhat  prominent  feature  in  all 
these  records  of  Spanish  Guerrilla  warfare,  but  in  Missouri  it 
was  absolutely  unknown.  Mina  himself  had  a  sergeant  named 
Malcarado  who  attempted  to  betray  him  to  the  enemy.  He 
succeeded  so  far  as  to  lead  a  French  patrol  to  the  room  in 
which  his  chief  was  still  sleeping  in  bed.  But  suddenly 
aroused,  Mina  defended  himself  desperately  with  the  bar  of 


28  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

the  door  and  kept  the  attacking  party  at  bay  until  Gustra,  his 
chosen  comrade,  assisted  him  to  escape.  Taking  Malcarado 
afterwards  he  shot  him  instantly,  together  with  the  village  cure 
.and  three  alcaldes  implicated  in  the  effort  at  kidnapping. 

In  Mexico,  under  Maximilian,  the  French  had  an  organization 
known  to  the  army  of  occupation  as  the  Contre  Guerrillas,  that 
is  to  say  Imperial  Guerrillas,  who  fought  when  they  could  and 
•exterminated  where  they  could  the  Republican  Mexican  Guer- 
rillas. Colonel  Dupin,  who-  commanded  them,  more  nearly 
assimilated  Quantrell  in  his  manner  of  fighting  than  any  other 
leader  of  Guerrillas  history  has  yet  passed  in  review.  He  was 
desperately  cruel,  but  he  fought  fast  and  hard.  Distance  was 
nothing  to  him,  nor  fatigue,  nor  odds,  nor  the  difficulties  of  a 
position  necessary  to  assault,  nor  any  terra  incognita  the  tropics 
could  array  to  ride  into.  He  had  the  flexibility  of  the  panther 
and  the  grip  of  the  bull-dog.  Nothing  uniformed  and  allied  to 
Juarez  ever  lived  after  he  once  laid  hold  upon  it.  Past  sixty, 
bronzed  brown  as  a  bag  of  leather,  a  school  girl's  face,  covered 
with  decorations,  straight  as  Tecumseh,  he  led  his  squadrons 
through  ambuscades  sixty  miles  long,  and  made  the  court  mar- 
tial bring  up  eternally  the  rear  of  the  combat.  Any  weapon 
fitted  his  hand,  just  as  any  weapon  fitted  the  hand  of  Quantrell. 
Ruse,  stratagem,  disguise,  ambushment,  sudden  attack,  furious 
charge,  unquestioned  prowess,  desperate  resolve  in  extremity, 
unerring  rapidity  of  thought — all  these  elements  belonged  to 
him  by  the  inexorable  right  of  his  profession,  and  he  used  them 
all  to  terrify  and  to  exterminate. 

With  Dupin  also  in  Mexico  was  Captain  Ney,  Duke  df 
Elchingen,  and  grandson  of  that  other  Ney  who,  when  thrones 
were  tumbling  and  fugitive  kings  flitting  through  the  smoke  of 
Waterloo,  cried  out  to  D'Erlon:  "Come  and  see  how  a  Marshal 
of  France  dies  on  the  field  of  battle." 

Ney  had  under  him  an  American  squadron,  swart,  stalwart 
fellows,  scarred  in  many  a  border  battle  and  bronzed  by  many  a 
day  of  sunshiny  and  stormy  weather.  Names  went  for  naught 
there.  Hiding  themselves  in  the  unknown  beyond  the  Rio 
Grande,  those  cool,  calm  men  asked  cne  of  another  no  question 
of  the  past.  Nothing  of  retrospect  remained.  Content  to 
march  and  fight  and  be  prodigal  of  everything  save  brag  or 
boast,  they  carried  no  black  flag  and  they  often  gave  quarter. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER      .   29 

And  how  they  fought!  Dupin — taking  note  of  many  other 
things  besides — took  note  also  of  this.  Once  when  a  day  of 
battles  opened  ominously,  and  when  from  the  far  front  the  story 
came  back  of  repulses  savoring  strongly  of  disaster,  he  chose  this 
little  band  alone  for  a  desperate  charge  and  patched  with  it  swiftly 
the  riven  ranks  of  his  routed  soldiery.  When  the  hot  work 
was  over  and  done,  and  when  not  anywhere  in  street,  or  town, 
or  cfrapparal  beyond  the  town,  an  enemy  struggled  save  in  the 
last  sure  agonies  of  death,  he  bade  the  balance  of  the  regiment 
defile  past  their  guidon  and  salute  it  with  sloping  standards  and 
Tictorious  music.  In  that  day's  fierce  melee  rode  some  tof 
QuantrelTs  best  and  bravest.  Their  comrades  knew  them  not, 
for  they  made  no  sign  ;  and  yet  thrice  was  the  sword  of  Capi  ain 
Ney  put  out  to  wave  the  foremost  back — it  being  a  point  of  hon- 
or with  a  French  cavalry  officer  to  permit  no  subaltern  to  pass 
him  in  a  charge — and  thrice  did  he  cry  alourt  and  warn  the  bold- 
est that  if  they  went  by  him  they  went  by  ftt  their  peril.  One 
of  these  pressing  thus  hard  behind  the  gallait  Ney  was  John  C. 
Moore,  once  a  member  of  Marmaduke's  staff,  and  later  a 
trained  athlete  in  the  arena  where  Shelby's  giants  struggled 
only  for  renown  and  glory.  War  found  him  ar  enthusiast  and 
left  him  a  philosopher.  He  drifted  into  Mexico  a  little  behind 
the  tide  which  bore  his  chieftain  out,  and  for  want  of  other 
things  to  do  joined  the  Contre  Guerrillas.  He  was  always 
merciful  in  combat,  and  fought  in  the  reckless  old  style  just 
because  it  was  fashionable  to  fight  so,  and  because  he  g^ve  so 
little  thought  to-day  whether  the  morrow  would  be  peaceful  in 
bivouacs  or  stormy  with  sudden  ambuscades.  He  was  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  dauntless  spirits  who  dreamed  of  empire 
in  the  land  of  the  Aztecs,  and  who  never  for  a  moment  lost 
faith  in  the  future  or  saw  need  for  despair  in  the  present 
until  imbecility  rose  upon  and  mastered  resolution  and  forced 
Maximilian  from  a  throne  to  a  dead-wall. 

There  were  no  Guerrillas  in  the  days  of  the  revolution,  for  in 
no  sense  of  the  word  could  General  Marion  and  his  men  be 
considered  as  such.  Strictly  partisan  in  some  respects,  and 
fighting  here,  there,  and  everywhere  as  occasion  or  opportunity 
permitted,  he  never  for  a  moment  severed  communication  with 
the  goverment  his  patriotism  defended,  nor  relied  for  a  day 
upon  other  resources  than  those  of  the  departments  regularly 


30  NOTED  GUEBKILLAS,  OH 

organized  for  military  supremacy.  As  part  of  the  national 
army,  he  entered  as  an  important  factor  in  the  plans  of  every 
contiguous  campaign.  His  swamp  warfare  made  him  formid- 
able but  never  ferocious.  He  rarely  killed  save  in  open  battle, 
and  being  seldom  retaliated  upon,  he  had  nothing  to  retaliate 
for  in  the  way  of  an  equilibrium.  It  required,  indeed,  all  the 
excesses  of  the  civil  war  of  1861-5  to  produce  the  genuine 
American  Guerrilla — more  enterprising  by  far,  more  deadly, 
more  capable  of  immense  physical  endurance,  more  fitted  by 
nature  for  deeds  of  reckless  hardihood,  and  given  over  to  less 
of.  penitence  or  pleading  when  face  to  face  with  the  final  end, 
than  any  French  or  Spanish,  Italian  or  Mexican  Guerrilla 
notorious  in  song  or  story.  He  simply  lived  the  life  that  was  in 
him,  and  took  the  worst  or  best  as  it  came  and  as  fate  decreed 
it.  Circumstances  made  him  unsparing,  and  not  any  predis- 
position in  race  or  rearing.  Fought  first  with  fire,  he  fought 
back  with  the  torch;  and  branded  as  an  outlaw  first  in 
despite  of  all  reason,  he  made  of  the  infamous  badge  a  birth- 
right and  boasted  of  it  as  a  blood-red  inheritance  while 
flaunting  it  in  the  face  of  a  civilization  which  denounced  the 
criminals  while  condoning  the  crimes  that  made  them  such. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

QUANTRELL. 

ONE-HALF  the  country  believes  Quantrell  to  have  been  a 
highway  robber  crossed  upon  the  tiger  ;  the  other  half  that 
he  was  the  gallant  defender  of  his  native  South.  One-half  be- 
lieves him  to  have  been  an  avenging  Nemesis  of  the  right;  the 
other  a  forbidding  monster  of  assassination.  History  cannot 
hesitate  over  him,  however,  nor  abandon  him  to  the  imagination 
of  the  romancers — those  cosmopolitan  people  who  personify  him 
as  the  type  of  a  race  which  reappears  in  every  country  that  is  a 
prey  to  the  foreigner — the  legitimate  bandit  in  conflict  with  con- 
quest. He  was  a  living,  breathing,  aggressive,  all-powerful 
reality — riding  through  the  midnight,  laying  ambuscades  by 
lonesome  roadsides,  catching  marching  columns  by  the  throat, 
breaking  in  upon  the  flanks  and  tearing  a  suddenly  surprised  rear 
to  pieces ;  vigilant,  merciless,  a  terror  by  day  and  a  superhu- 
man if  not  a  supernatural  thing  when  there  was  upon  the  earth 
blackness  and  darkness. 

Charles  William  Quantrell  was  to  the  Guerrillas  their  voice 
in  tumult,  their  beacon  in  a  crisis,  and  their  hand  in  action. 
From  him  sprang  all  the  other  Guerrilla  leaders  and  bands 
which  belong  largely  to  Missouri  and  the  part  Missouri  took  in 
the  civil  war.  Todd  owed  primary  allegiance  to  him,  and  so 
did  Scott,  Haller,  Anderson,  Blunt,  Poole,  Younger,  Maddox, 
Jarrette,  the  two  James  brothers — Jesse  and  Frank — Shepherd, 
Yager,  Hulse,  Gregg — all  in  fact  who  became  noted  afiewards 
as  enterprising  soldiers  and  fighters.  His  was  the  central 
figure,  and  it  towered  aloft  amid  all  the  wreck  and  overthrow 
and  massacre  that  went  on  continually  around  and  about  him 
until  it  fell  at  last  as  the  pine  falls,  uprooted  by  Omnipotence 
or  shivered  by  its  thunderbolt. 


32  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

The  early  life  of  Quantrell  was  obscure  and  uneventful. 
Born  in  Hagerstown,  Maryland,.  July  20,  1836,  and  raised  there- 
until he  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  remained  always  an  obe- 
dient and  an  affectionate  son.  His  mother  had  been  left  a 
widow  when  he  was  only  a  few  years  old,  and  had  struggled 
bravely  and  with  true  maternal  devotion  to  keep  a  home  for  her 
children  and  her  children  in  it.  Inheriting  self-reliance  in  an 
eminent  degree,  and  something  of  that  sadness  which  is  th& 
rightful  offspring  of  early  poverty,  the  boy  Quantrell  was  taken 
in  his  sixteenth  year  to  Cleveland,  Ohio,  by  an  old  friend  of 
his  family,  a  Colonel  Toler,  and  there  given  an  excellent  English 
education.  He  never  saw  his  mother  again.  His  first  separa- 
tion was  his  final  one. 

As  early  as  1855  Missouri  and  Kansas  had  been  at  war. 
Seward's  Irrepressible  Conflict  began  then — passed  from  its 
quiescent  to  its  aggressive  stage  then,  and  opened  the  crevasse 
in  the  embankment  then  which  was  to  let  through  all  the  floods- 
of  sectional  bitterness  and  strife  and  deluge  the  whole  land  with 
the  horors  of  civil  war.  Men  were  baptized  then  who  were  to 
become  later  notorious  apostles  of  plunder  and  invasion.  Old 
John  Brown  was  a  creature  of  that  abolition  madness  which 
began  at  Osawatomie  Creek  and  ended  at  Harper's  Ferry. 
Jim  Lane  killed  his  first  man  in  that  war ;  Montgomery  came 
first  to  the  front  after  the  adoption  of  the  Lecompton  Constitu- 
tion, and  learned  so  well  the  uses  of  the  torch  that  later  he 
burned  Rome,  Georgia,  wantonly,  and  hung  a  dozen  or  so  of  its 
non-combatants ;  Jennison  gave  something  of  the  robber  prom- 
ise that  was  in  him ;  General  John  W.  Reid  added  greener 
laurels  to  his  Mexican  wreath ;  Jo.  Shelby,  that  eagle  of  the 
foray,  first  changed  his  down  for  his  feathers ;  there  were  fierce 
sectional  fires  lit  all  along  the  border;  the  two  States  hated 
each  other  and  harried  each  other's  accessible  lands;  from 
Leavenworth  south  to  Fort  Scott  dragon's  teeth  were  sown 
broadcast  as  wheat  is  sown  in  the  fall,  and  so  when  the  first 
drum  beat  was  heard  in  1861,  and  when  the  first  bugle  note  was 
sounded,  the  throat-cutting  had  already  begun. 

For  some  time  preceding  1855,  Quantrell's  only  brother  had 
been  living  in  Kansas.  He  was  older  by  several  years  than 
Charles,  had  been  more  of  a  father  to  him  than  a  playmate,  and 
was  then  the  mainstay  of  the  struggling  widow,  still  fighting 


THE  WAKFAKE  OF  THE  BOEDER          S3 

the  uncertain  battles  of  life  heroically  and  alone.  The  strife 
along  the  border  had  somewhat  subsided,  and  something  of 
comparative  peace  had  succeeded  to  the  armed  irruption,  when 
the  elder  Quantrell  wrote  to  the  younger  and  urged  him  to  come 
at  once  to  his  home  in  the  disputed  Territory.  A  trip  to 
California  was  contemplated,  and  the  one  in  Kansas  would  not 
go  without  the  one  in  Ohio. 

About  the  middle  of  the  summer  of  1 856  both  brothers  began 
their  overland  journey,  each  having  a  wagon  loaded  with 
provisions,  four  good  mules  each,  and  more  or  less  money 
between  them.  One  negro  man  was  also  carried  along — a  sort 
of  general  utility  person — part  hostler  and  part  cook.  In 
addition  he  was  also  free.  The  three  were  together  when  that 
unprovoked  tragedy  occurred  which  was  to  darken  and  blacken 
the  whole  subsequent  current  of  the  younger  brother's  life,  and 
link  his  name  forever  with  some  of  the  savagest  episodes  of 
some  of  the  most  savage  Guerrilla  history  ever  recorded. 

Although  there  was  comparative  peace  at  that  time,  armed 
bands  still  maintained  their  organization  throughout  the  entire 
State.  Some  were  legitimate  and  some  illegitimate.  A  few 
lived  by  patriotism,  such  as  it  was,  and  a  good  many  by  plun- 
der. Here  and  there  worse  things  than  stealing  were  done,  and 
more  than  one  belated  traveler  saw  the  sun  set  never  to  rise 
again,  and  more  than  one  suspected  or  obnoxious  settler  disap- 
peared so  quietly  as  scarcely  to  cause  a  ripple  of  comment  upon 
the  placid  surface  of  neighborhood  events.  Especially  impla- 
cable were  one  or  two  companies  owing  allegiance  to  Lane.  In 
the  name  of  Abolitionism  they  took  to  the  highway,  and  for  the 
sake  of  freedom  in  Kansas  great  freedom  was  taken  with  other 
people's  lives  and  property.  Camped  one  night  on  the  Little 
Cottonwood  River,  en  route  to  California,  thirty  armed  men 
rode  deliberately  up  to  the  wagons  where  the  Quantrells  were 
and  opened  fire  at  point-blank  range  upon  the  occupants.  The 
elder  Quantrell  was  killed  instantly,  while  the  younger- 
wounded  badly  in  the  left  leg  and  right  breast— was  left  upon 
the  bank  of  the  stream  to  die.  The  negro  was  not  harmed. 
Scared  so  dreadfully  at  first  as  to  be  unable  to  articulate,  he  yet 
found  his  speech  when  the  robbers  began  to  hitch  up  the  teams 
and  drive  offi  the  wagons,  and  pleaded  eloquently  that  food  and 
shelter  might  be  left  for  the  wounded  man.  "  Of  what  use?  " 
3 


34  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

the  leader  of  the  Jayhawkers  sneered,  "he  will  die  at  best,  and 
if  we  did  not  think  that  he  would  die,  we  would  be  sure  to 
finish  him."  And  so  they  drove  away,  taking  not  only  the 
wagons  and  teams,  but  the  tent  and  the  negro,  leaving  Quan- 
trell  alone  with  his  murdered  brother,  the  wide  wilderness  of 
prairie  and  sky  above  and  about  him  everywhere  and  death's 
door  so  close  to  his  own  hands  that  for  the  stretching  out  he 
might  have  laid  hold  thereon  and  entered  in.  Not  content, 
however,  with  being  robbers  and  cut-throats,  they  added  petty 
thieving  to  cowardly  asssasination.  The  pockets  of  both  were 
rifled,  every  dollar  was  taken  from  each,  a  ring  from  a  finger 
of  the  living  and  a  watch  from  the  person  of  the  dead. 

It  was  two  days  before  the  wounded  brother  was  foand — two 
days  of  agony,  retrospects,  and  dreams  it  may  be  of  a  stormy 
future.  Something  of  the  man's  wonderful  fortitude  abode 
with  him  to  the  end.  He  heard  the  clangor  of  ominous  pinions 
and  the  flapping  of  mysterious  wings  that  splotched  the  prairie 
grass  with  hateful  splotches  of  beak  and  claw.  He  dragged 
himself  to  the  inanimate  heap  lying  there  festering  in  the  sum- 
mer's sun,  and  fought  a  desperate  double  fight  against  the 
talons  that  would  mutilate  and  the  torments  of  fever  and  thirst 
that  were  burning  him  up  alive.  And  in  the  darkness  came 
other  sounds  than  the  rising  of  the  night  wind.  A  long,  low 
howl  at  first  that  had  the  subdued  defiance  of  hunger  in  it,  and 
then  the  shuffling  of  creeping  feet  and  the  mingling  of  gray  and 
darkness  in  the  nearest  cover.  The  wolves  were  abroad — 
coming  ever  closer  and  closer,  and  crouching  there  in  the 
prairie  grass,  knowing  scarcely  aught  of  any  difference  between 
the  living  and  the  dead.  He  did  not  cry  out,  neither  did  he 
make  moan.  All  night  long  by  the  corpse  he  watched  and 
defended — seeing  on  the  morrow  the  sun  rise  red  out  of  a  sea 
of  verdure,  and  hearing  again  on  the  morrow  the  clangor  of 
ominous  pinions  and  the  flapping  of  mysterious  wings. 

From  the  road  to  the  stream  it  was  fifty  good  steps,  and  be- 
tween the  two  an  abundance  of  luxuriant  grass.  The  descent 
to  the  water  was  very  steep,  and  broken  here  and  there  by  gul- 
lies the  rains  had  cut.  Until  an  intolerable  thirst  drove  him  to 
quit  his  watch  by  his  brother's  corpse,  and  quit  his  uncomplain- 
ing fight  against  buzzard  and  prairie  wolf,  he  never  moved  from 
the  dead  man's  side.  In  the  two  nights  and  days  of  this  mourn- 


THE  WAItFAfiE  OF  THE  BOEDER  35 

ful  vigil  he  did  not  sleep.  He  could  not  walk,  and  yet  he  rolled 
himself  down  to  the  river  and  back  again  to  the  road — dragging 
his  crippled  body  over  the  broken  places  and  staunching  his 
wounds  with  the  rankest  grass.  He  would  live !  He  had  never 
thought  how  necessary  life  could  become  to  him.  There  was 
much  to  do.  The  dead  had  to  be  buried,  the  murder  had  to  be 
avenged,  and  that  demand — fixed  as  fate  and  as  inexorable — 
had  to  be  made  which  required  sooner  or  later  an  eye  for  an 
eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  What  he  suffered  during  the  two 
days  and  nights,  when  the  mutilated  brother  watched  by  the 
murdered  one,  he  would  never  tell.  Indeed,  he  rarely  referred 
to  his  past,  aiid  spoke  so  little  of  himself  that  those  who  knew 
him  longest  knew  the  least  of  his  history,  and  those  who  ques- 
tioned him  the  most  assiduously  got  less  satisfaction  than  those 
who  questioned  him  not  at  all. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  and  just  after  Quan- 
trcll  had  dragged  himself  back  from  the  river  to  the  road,  suf- 
fering more  and  more  of  agony  from  his  already  swollen  and 
inflamed  wounds,  an  old  Shawnee  Indian,  Golightly  Spiebuck, 
happened  to  pass  along,  and  became  at  once  the  rough  but 
kindly  Samaritan  of  the  Plains.  The  dead  man  was  buried,  and 
the  wounded  one  placed  gently  in  the  Indian's  wagon  and  car- 
ried by  easy  stages  to  his  home,  a  few  miles  south  of  Leaven- 
worth.  Spiebuck  died  in  1868,  but  he  often  told  the  story  of 
the  rescue.  It  took  him  four  hours  to  dig  the  grave  deep 
enough  for  the  dead  man.  There  was  neither  coffin,  nor  shroud, 
nor  funeral  rite.  Dry-eyed  and  so  ghastly  white  that  he  looked 
to  Spiebuck  like  the  ghost  of  the  departed  come  back  to  claim 
the  due  of  decent  sepulchre',  Quantrell  watched  the  corpse 
until  the  earth  covered  it,  and  then  he  hobbled  to  his  knees 
and  turned  his  dry  eyes  up  to  where  he  believed  a  God  to  be. 
Did  he  pray?  Yes,  like  Caligula,  perhaps,  and  that  the  whole 
Jayhawking  fraternity  had  but  a  single  neck,  capable  of  being 
severed  by  a  single  blow. 


CHAPTER  V. 

QUANTRELL  AND  THE   KANSAS    JAYHAWKERS. 

/^vUANTRELL  recovered  slowly.  He  had  youth,  a  fine  phy- 
^££)  sique,  great  energy  and  determination  of  character ;  but 
his  mind  appeared  to  dominate  over  and  hold  his  body  in  sub- 
jection. He  would  lay  for  hours  at  a  time  with  his  hands  over  his 
eyes — his  pale  cheeks  lit  up  with  a  kind  of  hectic  flush,  and  his 
respiration  so  noiseless  and  imperceptible  that  Spiebuck's  old 
Indian  wife  and  nurse  more  than  once  declared  him  dying.  But 
he  was  not  dying;  he  was  thinking.  Afterwards  there  came 
weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch.  Summer  was  dead  on  the 
hills,  and  autumn  had  already  begun  to  frighten  the  timid  leaves 
with  the  white  ghost  of  the  snow.  The  cripple  had  become  to 
be  a  convalescent,  the  convalescent  had  become  to  be  a  man — a 
little  pale,  it  may  be,  but  cured  of  his  wounds  and  his  reveries. 
If  any  knew  of  the  murder  and  the  robbery  upon  the  Cotton* 
wood,  they  had  forgotten  both.  Either  was  so  familiar  and  so 
matter  of  fact  that  the  law  regarded  the  thief  complacently,  and 
public  opinion  took  sides  with  the  murderer — thus  making  for 
each  an  equal  justification.  One. man  remembered,  however — • 
one  calm,  grave  man — something:  of  a  set  sadness  always  about 
his  features,  and  now  and  then  an  eager,  questioning  look  that 
seemed  to  appeal  to  the  future  while  recalling  and  re-establish- 
ing the  past. 

Quantrell  was  very  patient.  Sometimes  tigers  lick  the  cru- 
crifix;  sometimes  sheep  become  wolves.  He  took  a  school; 
taught  the  balance  of  the  year  1856 ;  got  into  his  possession  all 
the  money  he  needed ;  paid  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Spiebuck  liberally 
for  every  care  and  attention;  shook  hands  cordially  with  the 
good  old  Indians  on  the  15th  day  of  August,  1857,  and  went  to 
Leavenworth.  As  he  had  never  permitted  confidences,  he  had 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         37 

no  need  of  a  disguise.  The  simple  Charley  Quantrell  had  be- 
come to  be  the  simple  Charley  Hart,  and  that  was  all.  The 
Nemesis  was  about  to  put  on  the  national  uniform.  The  lone 
grave  by  the  Cottonwood  river  had  begun  to  have  grass  upon 
it,  and  there  was  need  that  it  should  be  watered. 

Leavenworth  City  belonged  at  that  time  to  the  Jayhawkers, 
and  the  Jayhawkers  to  all  intents  and  purposes  belonged  to  Jim 
Lane.  The  original  Jayhawker  was  a  growth  indigenous  to  the 
soil  of  Kansas.  There  belonged  to  him  as  things  of  course  a 
pre-emption,  a  chronic  case  of  chills  and  fever,  one  starved  cow 
and  seven  dogs,  a  longing  for  his  neighbor's  goods  and  chattels, 
a  Sharpe's  rifle,  when  he  could  get  it,  and  something  of  a  Bible 
for  hypocrisy's  sake — something  that  savored  of  the  real  pres- 
ence of  the  book  to  give  backbone  to  his  canting  and  snuffling. 
In  somo  respects  a  mountebank,  in  others  a  scoundrel,  and  in 
all  a  thief — he  was  a  character  eminently  adapted  for  civil  war 
which  produces  more  adventurers  than  heroes.  His  hands  were 
large,  hairy  and  red — proof  of  inherited  laziness — and  a  slouch- 
ing gait  added  to  the  ungainliness  of  his  figure  when  he  walked. 
The  type  was  ail  of  a  kind.  The  mouth  generally  wore  a  calcu- 
lating smile — the  only  distinguishable  gift  remaining  of  a  Puri- 
tan ancestry — but  when  he  felt  that  he  was  looked  at  the  calcu- 
lating smile  became  sanctimonious.  Slavery  concerned  him 
only  as  the  slave-holder  was  supposed  to  be  rich;  and  just  so 
long  as  Beecher  presided  over  emigration  aid  societies, 
preached  highway  robbery,  defended  political  murder,  and  sent 
something  to  the  Jayhawkers  in  the  way  of  real  fruits  and 
funds,  there  surely  was  a  God  in  Israel  and  Beecher  was 
his  great  high  priest.  Otherwise  they  all  might  go  to  the  devil 
together.  The  Jayhawker  was  not  brave.  He  would  fight 
when  he  had  to  figlit,  but  he  would  not  stand  in  the  last  ditch 
and  shoot  away  his  last  cartridge.  Born  to  nothing,  and  eter- 
nally out  at  elbows,  what  else  could  he  do  but  laugh  and  be 
glad  when  chance  kicked  a  country  into  war  and  gave  purple 
and  fine  linen  to  a  whole  lot  of  bummers  and  beggars?  In  the 
saddle  he  rode  like  a  sand  bag  or  a  sack  of  meal.  The  eternal 
44 age r  cake"  made  a  trotting  horse  his  abomination,  and  he  had 
no  use  for  a  thoroughbred,  save  to  steal  him.  When  he 
abandoned  John  Brown  and  rallied  to  the  standard  of  Jim  Lane 
— when  he  gave  up  the  fanatic  and  clove  unto  the  thief — he 


38  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

simply  changed    Ms  leader    without    changing    his  principles. 

General  James  H.  Lane,  for  some  time  previous  to  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  war  and  for  sometime  afterwards,  was  omnipotent 
in  Kansas.  Immense  bonhommie,  joined  to  immense  vitality, 
made  him  a  political  giant.  Of  infinite  humor,  rarely  skilled  in 
the  arts  of  judging  human  nature,  passably  brave,  though 
always  from  selfish  impulses,  brilliant  in  speech,  exaggerated  in 
sentiment,  vivid  in  expresson,  and  full  of  that  intangible  yet 
all-mastering  pathos  which  has  ever  and  will  ever  find  in  the 
West  its  most  profitable  employment,  he  soon  became  the 
Melchisedec  of  the  Kansas  militia  and  the  founder  of  a  line  of 
Jayhawkers.  Blood  had  already  stained  his  hands.  The  civili- 
zation to  which  his  principles  owned  origin  permitted  him  the 
wives  of  other  people  if  he  could  win  them,  and  he  went  about 
with  the  quest  of  a  procuress  and  the  encompassnient  of  Solo- 
mon. Reversing  the  alphabet  in  the  spelling  out  of  his  morals, 
he  made  v  the  first  letter  of  the  new  dispensation,  because  it 
stood  for  virility.  The  mantle  of  John  Brown  had  fallen  upon 
his  shoulders,  and  yet  it  did  not  fit  him.  John  Brown  was  the 
inflexible  partisan ;  Jim  Lane  the  ambitious  man  of  talent.  One 
would  have  given  everything  to  the  cause  which  he  espoused — 
did  give  his  life ;  the  other  stipulated  for  commissions,  senato- 
rial robes,  and  political  power.  John  Brown  could  never  have 
passed  from  the  character  of  destructive  to  that  of  statesman  ; 
but  Jim  Lane,  equal  to  either  extreme,  put  readily  aside  with 
one  hand  the  business  of  making  raids,  and  took  up  with  the 
other  the  less  difficult  though  more  complicated  business  of 
making  laws. 

Jennison  was  of  inferior  breed  and  mettle.  None  of  his  ideas 
ever  rose  above  a  corral  of  rebel  cattle,  and  he  made  war  like  a 
brigand,  and  with  a  cold  brutality  which  he  imagined  gave  to 
his  unsoldierly  greed  the  mask  of  patriotism. 

Montgomery,  dying  by  inches  of  consumption,  and  feeling 
a  craving  for  military  fame  without  having  received  from  society 
or  nature  the  means  of  acquiring  it,  was  content  to  become 
infamous  in  order  to  become  notorious.  He  was  the  patron  of 
the  assassin  and  the  incendiary. 

These  three  embryotic  embodiments  of  all  that  was  to  be  for- 
bidding and  implacable  in  border  warfare  came  in  and  out  of 
Leavenworth  a  great  deal  in  those  brief  yet  momentous  months 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          39 

preceding  that  mighty  drama  which  from  a  small  Kansas  pro- 
logue was  to  overshadow  and  envelop  a  continent.  Quantrell, 
known  now  as  Charles  Hart, 'became  intimate  with  Lane,  and 
ostensibly  attached  himself  to  the  fortunes  of  the  anti-slavery 
party.  If,  in  order  to  advance  an  object  or  to  get  a  step  nearer 
to  the  goal  of  his  ambition,  it  became  necessary  to  speak  of  John 
Brown,  he  always  spoke  of  him  as  of  one  for  whom  he  had  great 
admiration.  General  Lane,  at  that  time  a  Colonel,  was  in  com- 
mand of  a  regiment  whose  headquarters  were  at  Lawrence. 
Thither  from  Leavenworth  went  Quantrell,  and  soon  became 
enrolled  in  a  company  to  which  belonged  all  but  two  of  the  men 
who  did  the  deadly  work  at  the  Cottonwood  river.  If  the  whole 
Quantrell  episode  had  not  been  forgotten,  however,  certainly 
there  was  nothing  to  recall  it  in  the  sad  face,  slender  figure, 
drooping  blue  eyes  and  courteous  behavior  of  the  new  recruit. 
He  talked  little  and  communed  with  himself  a  great  deal. 
While  others  amused  themselves  with  cards,  or  women,  or  wine, 
Quantrell  rode  over  the  country  in  every  direction,  and  made 
himself  thoroughly  acquainted  with  its  geography  and  topog- 
raphy. Who  knows  but  what  even  then  the  coming  events  of 
that  terrible  sack  and  pillage  were  beginning  to  cast  their  shad- 
ows before. 

First  a  private  and  then  an  orderly  sergeant,  Quantrell  soon 
won  the  esteem  of  his  officers  and  the  confidence  of  his  men. 
It  was  getting  along  pretty  well  through  1858,  and  what  with 
brushes  with  the  Border  Ruffians,  as  the  Missourians  were 
called,  and  scouting  after  depredating  Indians,  Lane's  command 
was  kept  comparatively  active.  It  was  required  also  to  furnish 
covering  parties  for  trains  running  on  the  Underground  Rail- 
road, and  scouts  along  the  whole  line  of  the  border  from  Kaw 
River  to  the  Boston  Mountains.  One  day  Quantrell  and  three 
men  were  sent  down  to  the  neighborhood  of  Wyandotte  to  meet 
a  wagon  load  of  negroes  coming  out  of  Missouri  under  the 
pilotage  of  Jack  Winn,  a  somewhat  noted  horse-thief  and 
abolitionist.  One  of  the  three  men  failed  to  return  when 
Quantrell  and  his  comrade  did,  nor  could  any  account  be  given 
of  his  absence  until  a  body  was  found  near  a  creek  several  days 
afterward.  In  the  centre  of  the  forehead  was  the  round, 
smooth  hole  of  a  navy  revolver  bullet.  Those  who  looked  for 
Jack  Winn's  safe  arrival  were  also  disappointed.  Ke  had  been 


40  NOTED  GUEREILLAS,  OK 

shot  just  inside  the  fence  of  a  cornfield,  and  in  falling  had  fallen 
face  foremost  in  some  rank  weeds  and  briars  which  completely 
covered  him.  People  traveling  the  road  passed  and  repassed 
the  corpse  almost  hourly,  but  the  buzzards  found  it  first  and 
afterwards  the  curious.  There  was  the  same  round  hole  in  the 
forehead,  and  the  same  sure  mark  of  the  navy  revolver  bullet. 

Somebody's  hand-writing  was  becoming  to  be  legible ! 

Next,  four  companies  received  marching  orders  for  service 
down  about  Fort  Scott,  and  Quantrell's  was  among  the  four. 
The  Missourians  of  late  had  been  swarming  over  the  border 
thick  in  that  direction,  and  Lane  wanted  to  know  more  of  what 
they  were  doing.  Some  skirmishing  ensued,  and  now  and  then 
there  was  a  sudden  combat.  Quantrell  was  the  first  in  every 
adventurous  enterprise  and  the  last  to  leave  upon  every 
skirmish  line.  Of  the  four  companies  detailed  to  do  duty  in 
the  vicinity  of  Fort  Scott,  all  the  members  of  each  returned 
except  sixty.  The  death  of  forty-two  of  these  was  attributed 
to  the  enemy,  of  the  other  eighteen  to  the  manifold  calamities 
of  war.  Two  of  the  eighteen  bodies  were  recovered,  however, 
and  there  was  the  same  round,  smooth  hole  in  the  middle  of  the 
forehead.  Evidently  the  Border  Ruffians  had  navy  revolvers 
and  knew  just  where  to  shoot  a  man  when  it  was  intended  to 
shoot  him  only  once. 

Things  went  on  thus  for  several  months.  Scarcely  a  week 
passed  that  some  sentinel  was  not  found  dead  at  his  post,  some 
advanced  picquet  surprised  and  shot  at  the  outermost  watch 
station.  The  men  began  to  whisper  one  to  another  and  to  cast 
about  for  the  cavalry  Jonah  who  was  in  the  midst  of  them. 
One  company  alone,  that  of  Captain  Pickens — the  company  to 
which  Quantrell  belonged — had  lost  thirteen  men  between 
October,  1857,  and  March,  1858.  Another  company  had  lost 
two,  and  three  one  each.  A  second  Underground  Railroad 
conductor  named  Rogers  had  been  shot  through  the  forehead, 
and  two  scouts  from  Montgomery's  command  named  Stephens 
and  Tarwater. 

From  the  privates  this  talk  about  a  Jonah  went  to  the  Cap- 
tains, and  from  the  Captains  to  the  Colonel.  Just  as  Lane 
began  to  busy  himself  with  this  story  of  an  epidemic  whose 
single  symptom  was  a  puncture  in  the  forehead  the  size  of  a 
navy  revolver  bullet,  Quantrell  was  made  a  Lieutenant  in 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          41 

Pickens'  company.  Therefore  if  this  Jonah  was  in  the  line  of 
promotion,  it  certainly  was  not  in  contemplation  to  cast  him 
overboard  to  the  fishes.  • 

Quantrell  and  Pickens  became  intimate — as  a  Captain  and 
Lieutenant  of  the  same  company  should — and  confided  many 
things  to  each  other.  One  night  the  story  of  the  Cottonwood 
River  was  told,  and  Pickens  dwelt  with  just  a  little  of  relish 
upon  the  long  ride  made  to  strike  the  camp  of  the  unsuspecting 
emigrants,  and  the  artistic  execution  of  the  raid  which  left 
neither  the  dead  man  a  shroud  nor  the  wounded  man  a  blanket. 
The  Lieutenant  turned  his  face  away  from  the  light  of  the 
bivouac  fire  and  essayed  to  ask  a  question  or  two.  Could 
Pickens  just  then  have  seen  his  eyes — scintillant,  and  dilated 
about  the  pupils  as  the  eyes  of  a  lion  in  the  night — he  might 
have  been  tempted  to  try  over  again  the  argument  of  the  Cot- 
tonwood crossing-place.  He  did  not  see  them,rhowever,  and  so 
he  told  all — how  the  plunder  was  divided,  the  mules  sold,  the 
money  put  all  together  in  one  pile  and  gambled  for,  the  kind  of 
report  made  to  headquarters,  and  the  general  drunk  which 
succeeded  the  return  and  ushered  in  forgetfulness. 

Three  days  thereafter  Pickens  and  two  of  his  most  reliable 
men  were  found  dead  on  Bull  Creek,  shot  like  the  balance  in 
the  middle  of  the  forehead. 

This  time  there  was  a  genuine  panic.  Equally  with  the  rest, 
Quantrell  exercised  himself  actively  over  the  mysterious 
murders,  and  left  no  conjecture  unexpressed  that  might  suggest 
a  solution  of  the  implacable  fatality.  Who  was  safe?  What 
protection  had  Colonel  Lane  in  his  tent,  or  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Jeuuison  in  his  cabin?  The  regiment  must  trap  and  slay  this 
hidden  monster  perpetually  in  ambush  in  the  midst  of  its  opera- 
tions, or  the  regiment  woukl  be  decimated.  It  could  not  fight 
the  unkown  and  the  superhuman. 

For  a  time  after  Pickens'  death  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
constant  conscription  demanded  by  the  Nemesis.  Mutterings 
of  the  coming  storm  were  beginning  to  be  heard  in  every  direc- 
tion, while  all  over  the  political  sky  there  were  portents  and 
perturbations.  Those  who  believed  that  the  nation's  life  was  at 
hazard  had  no  time  to  think  of  men.  The  new  Lieutenant 
bought  himself  a  splendid  uniform,  owned  the  best  horse  in  the 
Territory,  and  instead  of  one  navy  revolver  now  had  two. 


42  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

It  is  not  believed  that  at  this  time  Quantrell  was  suspected, 
for  in  a  long  conversation  held  with  him  by  Lane,  the  full  par- 
ticulars of  the  plan  adopted  to  discover  and  arrest  the  mys- 
terious murderer  were'  discussed  in  every  detail.  He  waited 
several  weeks  to  see  what  would  become  of  the  exertions  made 
to  trace  the  handwriting  on  the  foreheads  of  the  victims,  and 
then  apparently  dismissed  the  subject  from  his  mind.  At  all- 
events  he  no  longer  referred  to  it  in  conversation,  or  expressed 
an  opinion  upon  it  one  way  or  the  other.  He  had  his  duties  to 
perform  as  an  officer  of  cavalry,  and  he  had  no  inclination  to 
help  on  the  work  of  the  detectives.  Probably  two  months  after 
his  conversation  with  Lane,  Quantrell  was  ordered  to  take  his 
own  company  and  details  from  three  others — amounting  in  the 
aggregate  to  one  hundred  and  fourteen  men — and  make  a  scout 
out  towards  the  extreme  western  border  of  the  Territory. 
Although  the  expedition  saw  neither  a  hostile  Indian  nor  a  Mis- 
sourian,  thirteen  of  the  Jayhawkers  never  again  answered  at 
roll-call.  The  old  clamor  broke  out  again  in  all  its  fury,  and 
the  old  suspicions  were  extravagantly  aroused.  Quantrell  was 
called  upon  to  explain  the  absence  of  his  men,  and  reported 
calmly  all  that  he  knew  in  the  premises.  Detached  from  the 
main  body  and  ordered  out  on  special  duty,  they  had  not 
returned  when  their  comrades  did.  The  bodies  of  three  of 
them  had  been  found  shot  through  the  forehead,  and  although 
he  had  tried  every  art  known  to  his  ingenuity  to  learn  more  of 
the  causes  which  produced  this  mysterious  fatality,  he  was  no 
nearer  the  truth  than  his  commanding  officer.  Not  long  after 
this  report  two  men  from  another  company  were  missing,  and 
then  an  orderly  attached  to  the  immediate  person  of  Colonel 
Lane.  This  orderly  had  been  killed  under  peculiar  circum- 
stances. The  citizens  of  Lawrence  gave  a  supper  one  night  to 
some  distinguished  Eastern  people,  and  Colonel  Lane  presided 
at  the  table.  His  orderly  was  with  him,  and  as  the  night  deep- 
ened he  drank  freely  and  boasted  a  great  deal.  Among  the 
things  which  he  described  with  particular  minuteness  was  an 
attack  upon  a  couple  of  emigrants  nearly  two  years  before  and 
the  confiscation  of  their  property.  Quantrell  was  not  at  the 
banquet,  but  somehow  he  heard  of  the  orderly's  boast  and 
questioned  him  fully  concerning  the  whole  circumstance.  After 
this  dialogue  there  was  a  dead  man  I 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER          43 

There  came  also  from  the  East  about  this  time  some  sort  of  a 
disease  known  as  the  club  mania.  Those  afflicted  with  it — and 
it  attacked  well  nigh  the  entire  population — had  a  hot  fever 
described  as  the  enrollment  fever.  Organizations  of  all  sorts 
sprang  up — Free  Soil  Clubs,  Avengers,  Men  of  Equal  Rights, 
Sons  of  Liberty,  John  Brown's  Body  Guard,  Destroying 
Angels,  Lane's  Loyal  Leaguers,  and  what  not — and  every  one 
made  haste  to  get  his  name  signed  to  both  constitution  and 
by-laws.  Lawrence  especially  affected  the  Liberator  Club, 
whose  undivided  mission  was  to  find  freedom  for  all  the  slaves 
in  Missouri.  Quantrell  took  its  latitude  and  longitude  with  the 
calm,  cold  eyes  of  a  political  philosopher  and  joined  it  among 
the  first.  As  it  well  might  have  been,  he  soon  became  its  vital- 
izing influence  and  its  master.  The  immense  energy  of  the 
man — making  fertile  with  resources  a  mind  bent  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  certain  fixed  purpose — suggested  at  once  to  the 
Club  the  necessity  of  practical  work  if  it  meant  to  make  any 
negroes  free  or  punish  any  slaveholders.  He  knew  how  an- 
entire  family  of  negroes  might  be  rescued.  The  risk  was  not 
much.  The  distance  was  not  great.  The  time  was  opportune. 
How  many  would  volunteer  for  the  enterprise  ?  At  first  the 
Club  argued  indirectly  that  it  was  a  Club  sentimental — not  a 
Club  militant.  It  would  pray  devoutly  for  the  liberation  of  all 
the  slaves  in  all  the  world,  but  it  would  not  fight  for  them.  What 
profit  would  the  individual  members  receive  if,  after  gaining  all 
Africa,  they  lost  their  own  scalps?  Quantrell  persevered,  how- 
ever, and  finally  induced  seven  of  the  Liberators  to  co-operate 
with  him.  His  plan  was  to  enter  Jackson  county,  Missouri, 
with  three  days'  cooked  rations,  and  ride  the  first  night  to 
within  striking  distance  of  the  premises  it  was  intended  to 
plunder.  There — hidden  completely  in  the  brush  and  vigilant 
without  being  seen  or  heard — wait  again  for  the  darkness  of  the 
second  night.  This  delay  of  a  day  would  also  enable  the 
horses  to  get  a  good  rest  and  the  negroes  to  prepare  for  their 
hurried  journey.  Afterwards  a  bold  push  and  a  steady  gallop 
must  bring  them  all  back  safe  to  the  harbor  of  Lawrence.  Per- 
haps the  plan  really  was  a  daring  one,  and  the  execution 
extremely  dangerous ;  but  seven  Liberators  out  of  eighty-four 
volunteered  to  accompany  Quantrell,  and  in  a  week  everything 
•was  ready  for  the  enterprise. 


44  NOTED  GUEEKILLAS,  OR 

Morgan  Walker  was  an  old  citizen  of  Jackson  county — a 
veritable  pioneer.  He  had  settled  there  when  buffalo  grazed  on 
the  prairies  beyond  Westport,  and  when  in  the  soft  sands  along 
the  inland  streams  there  were  wolf  and  moccasin  tracks. 
Stalwart,  hospitable,  broad  across  the  back,  old-fashioned  in  his 
•courtesies  and  his  hospitalities,  he  fed  the  poor,  helped  the 
needy,  prayed  regularly  to  the  good  God,  did  right  by  his 
neighbors  and  his  friends,  and* only  swore  occasionally  at  the 
Jayhawkers  and  the  Abolitionists.  His  hands  might  have  been 
rough  and  sun-browned,  but  they  were  always  open.  None 
were  ever  turned  away  from  his  door  hungry.  Under  the  old 
roof  of  the  homestead — no  matter  what  the  pressure  was  nor 
how  large  the  demand  had  been — the  last  wayfarer  got  the  same 
comfort  as  the  first — and  altogether  they  got  the  best.  This 
man  Morgan  Walker  was  the  man  Quantrell  had  proposed  to 
rob.  Living  some  five  or  six  miles  from  Independence,  and 
owning  about  twenty  negroes  of  various  ages  and  sizes,  the 
probabilities  were  that  a  skillfully  conducted  raid  might  leave 
him  without  a  servant. 

Between  the  time  the  Liberators  had  made  every  preparation 
for  the  foray  and  the  time  the  eight  men  actually  started  for 
Morgan  Walker's  house,  there  was  the  space  of  a  week.  After- 
wards those  most  interested  remembered  that  Quantrell  had  not 
been  seen  during  all  that  period  either  in  Lawrence  or  at  the 
headquarters  of  his  regiment. 

Everything  opened  auspiciously.  Well  mounted  and  armed, 
the  little  detachment  left  Lawrence  quietly,  rode  two  by  two  and 
far  apart  until  the  point  of  the  first  rendezvous  was  reached — 
a  clump  of  timber  at  a  ford  on  Indian  Creek.  It  was  the 
evening  of  the  second  day  when  they  arrived,  and  they  tarried 
long  enough  to  rest  their  horses  and  eat  a  hearty  supper. 
Before  daylight  the  next  morning  the  entire  party  were  hidden 
in  some  heavy  timber  two  miles  to  the  west  of  Walker's  house. 
From  this  safe  retreat  none  of  them  stirred  except  Quantrell. 
Several  times  during  the  day,  however,  he  went  backwards  and 
forwards  ostensibly  to  the  fields  where  the  negroes  were  at 
work,  and  whenever  he  returned  he  always  brought  something 
either  for  the  horses  or  the  men  to  eat. 

Morgan  Walker  had  two  sons — true  scions  of  the  same  stock 
— and  before  it  was  yet  night  these  two  boys  and  also  the  father 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER          45 

might  have  been  seen  cleaning  up  and  putting  in  excellent  order 
their  double-barrfel  shot-guns.  A  little  later  three  neighbors, 
likewise  carrying  double-barrel  shot-guns,  rode  up  to  the  house, 
dismounted,  and  entered  in.  Quantrell,  who  brought  note  of 
many  other  things  to  his  comrades,  brought  no  note  of  this.  If 
he  saw  it  he  made  no  sign. 

The  night  was  dark.  It  had  rained  a  little  during  the  day, 
and  the  most  of  the  light  of  the  stars  had  been  put  out  by  the 
clouds,  when  Quantreli  arranged  his  men  for  the  dangerous 
venture.  They  were  to  proceed  first  to  the  house,  gain  posses- 
sion of  it,  capture  the  male  members  of  the  family,  put  them  under 
guard,  assemble  the  negroes,  bid  them  hitch  up  all  the  wagons 
and  teams  possible,  and  then  make  a  rapid  gallop  for  Kansas. 

Fifty  yards  from  the  main  gate  the  eight  men  dismounted  and 
fastened  their  horses.  Arms  were  looked  to,  and  the  stealthy 
march  to  the  house  began.  Quantrell  led.  He  was  very  cool, 
and  seemed  to  see  everything.  The  balance  of  the  marauders 
had  their  revolvers  in  their  hands  ;  his  were  in  his  belt.  Not  a 
dog  barked.  If  any  there  had  been  aught  save  city  bred,  this, 
together  with  the  ominous  silence,  would  have  demanded  a 
reconnoissance.  None  heeded  the  surroundings,  however,  and 
Quantrell  knocked  loudly  and  boldly  at  the  oaken  panels  of 
Morgan  Walker's  door.  No  answer.  He  knocked  again  and 
stood  perceptibly  to  one  side.  Suddenly,  and  as  though  it  had 
neither  bolts  nor  bars,  locks  nor  hinges,  the  door  flared  open 
and  Quantrell  leaped  into  the  hall  with  a  bound  like  a  red  deer. 
'Twas  best  so.  A  livid  sheet  of  flame  burst  out  from  the 
darkness  where  he  had  disappeared — as  though  an  explosion 
had  happened  there — followed  by  another  as  the  second  barrels 
of  the  guns  were  discharged,  and  the  tragedy  was  over.  Six 
fell  where  they  stood,  riddled  with  buckshot.  One  staggared  to 
the  garden,  bleeding  fearfully,  and  died  there.  The  seventh, 
hard  hit  and  unable  to  mount  his  horse,  dragged  his  crippled 
limbs  to  a  patch  of  timber  and  waited  for  the  dawn.  They 
tracked  him  by  his  blood  upon  the  leaves  and  found  him  early. 
Would  he  surrender  ?  No !  Another  volley,  and  the  last  Liber- 
ator was  liberated.  Walker  and  his  two  sons,  assisted  by  three 
of  his  stalwart  and  obliging  neighbors,  had  done  a  clean  night's 
work  and  a  righteous  one.  Those  who  had  taken  the  sword  had 
perished  by  it. 


46  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Events  traveled  rapidly  those  fiery  and  impatient  days,  and 
soon  all  the  county  was  up  and  exercised  over  the  attack  made 
upon  Morgan  Walker's  house,  and  the  deadly  work  which 
followed  it.  Crowds  congregated  to  look  upon  the  seven  dead 
men,  laid  one  alongside  of  another,  and  to  .see  what  manner  of 
a  man  remained  a  prisoner.  Thus  was  Quantrell  first  introduced 
to  the  citizens  of  Jackson  county,  but  little  could  any  tell  then 
of  what  iron  nerve  that  young  stripling  had,  what  grim  endur- 
ance, what  inexorable  purpose  to  make  war  practical  and 
uniorgiviug. 

Morgan  Walker  kept  his  own  counsel.  Quantrell  was 
arraigned  before  a  grand  jury  summoned  especially  for  the 
occasion  of  his  trial,  and  honorably  acquitted.  The  dead  were 
buried,  the  living  was  let  go  free,  and  the  night  attack  soon 
became  to  be  a  nine  days'  wonder.  Men  had  their  suspicions 
and  that  was  all.  Some  asked  why  seven  should  be  taken  and 
the  eighth  one  spared,  but  as  no  answer  came  in  reply,  the 
question  was  not  repeated.  Little  by  little  public  interest  in 
the  event  died  out,  and  Quantrell  went  back  to  Lawrence. 
There,  however,  the  hunt  was  up,  and  he  saw  at  a  glance  and 
instinctively  that  the  desperate  game  he  had  been  playing  had 
to  be  played,  if  played  any  longer,  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 
Salvation  depended  alone  upon  something  speedy  and  sure. 
His  intention  at  this  time  was  undoubtedly  to  have  killed  Lane 
before  he  abandoned  Lawrence  forever,  and  he  went  deliberately 
to  his  quarters  for  that  purpose.  Called  away  in  the  forenoon 
to  some  point  thirty  miles  distant,  Lane  had  not  returned  when 
Quantrell' s  blood-thirsty  preparations  had  all  been  finished. 
Time  pressed,  and  he  could  not  wait.  Associating  with  himself 
two  desperate  frontiersmen  from  Colorado,  and  openly  defj^ng 
the  Jayhawkers  and  the  Abolitionists,  Quantrell  simply  changed 
the  mode  of  his  warfare  without  mitigating  aught  of  its  affect- 
iveness.  Infuriated  at  the  intrepid  actions  of  the  man,  and 
learning  more  and  more  of  that  terrible  disease  whose  single 
symptom  has  already  been  described,  Lane  offered  heavy 
rewards  for  the  Guerrilla's  head.  Quantrell  laughed  at  these 
and  fought  on  in  his  own  avenging  fashion  all  through  the 
balance  of  the  year  1860  and  up  to  within  a  few  months  of  the 
fall  of  Fort  Sumpter  in  1861.  He  probably  told  but  twice  in 
his  career  the  true  story  of  his  life  in  Kansas— once  to  George 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          47 

Todd,  and  once  to  Jesse  and  Frank  James.  Each  time  he 
dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  out  of  the  thirty-two  men  who  killed 
his  brother  and  wounded  him,  two  only  escaped  the  final  pun- 
ishment, and  these  because  they  left  the  Jayhawkers  and  moved 
to  California.  Every  Jayhawker  shot  in  the  forehead  had  been 
shot  by  his  own  hand,  and  every  sentinel  killed  at  his  post,  and 
every  picquet  left  dead  at  the  outtermost  station,  was  but 
another  victim  offered  up  as  a  sacrifice  to  appease  the  unquiet 
spirit  of  the  elder  Quantrell.  The  younger  never  made  an 
official  estimate  of  the  number  slain  in  this  manner,  but  the 
evidence  is  almost  indisputable  that  a  few  over  a  hundred  fell 
by  his  hand  and  the  hands  of  the  two  Colorado  trappers  who 
joined  him  about  nine  months  before  the  war  commenced.  The 
raid  upon  Morgan  Walker  was  the  work  of  Quantrell' s  con- 
triving. Understanding  in  a  moment  that  only  through  their 
fanaticism  could  three  of  the  original  thirty-two  who  murdered 
his  brother  and  who  belonged  to  the  Liberator  Club — be  made 
to  get  far  enough  away  from  Lawrence  for  an  ambuscade,  he  set 
the  Jackson  county  trap  for  them,  baited  it  with  the  rescue  of 
a  negro  family,  and  they  fell  into  it.  His  week's  absence 
preceding  the  attack  was  spent  in  arranging  its  preliminaries. 
Neither  Walker  nor  his  friends  were  to  fire  until  he  had  aban- 
doned the  balance  of  the  party  to  their  fate,  and  each  time  that 
he  had  left  the  camp  in  the  woods  the  day  that  was  to  usher  in 
the  bloody  night,  he  had  been  to  Walker's  house  and  gone 
through  with  him,  as  it  were,  and  carefully  a  rehearsal  of  all  the 
more  important  parts  of  the  sanguinary  play. 

No  consuming  passion  for  revenge — no  matter  how  constantly 
fed  and  persistently  kept  alive — was  adequate  to  the  part  Quan- 
trell played  in  Kansas  from  1857  to  1861.  Something  his 
character  had — some  elements  of  nerve,  cunning,  and  intellect 
belonging  to  it  by  the  inherent  right  of  training  and  develop- 
ment— that  carried  him  successfully  through  the  terrible  work 
and  left  his  head  without  a  single  gray  hair,  his  face  without  a 
single  altered  feature.  The  attitude  must  have  been  superb, 
the  daily  equanimity  royal.  The  march  was  towards  ruin  or 
deification,  and  yet  day  after  day  he  anointed  himself,  made 
awry  things  smooth  before  a  mirror,  put  perfume  upon  his 
person,  and  a  rose  in  his  button-hole.  Under  waning  moons  of 
nights,  by  lonesome  roadsides  and  haunted  hollows,  he  took  kid 


48  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

gloves  from  his  hands  as  he  writ  legibly  the  writing '  of  the 
revolver.  Women  turned  back  upon  him  as  he  passed  them  on 
the  streets,  and  felt  to  stir  within  their  hearts — as  tfre  blue  eyes 
lit  up  in  courtly  recognition  and  the  pale  face  flushed  a  little  in 
glad  surprise — the  girls'  romantic  hunger  for  the  men.  He 
never  boasted.  So  young,  and  yet  he  was  a  Sphinx.  Eternally 
on  guard  when  he  was  not  in  ambush,  he  no  more  mispro- 
nounced a  word  than  he  permitted  rust  to  appear  upon  his 
revolver  barrels.  If  it  could  be  said  that  he  ever  put  on  a 
mask,  the  name  for  it  was  gravity.  He  never  endeavored  to 
make  death  ridiculous,  for  he  knew  that  in  the  final  summing  up 
death  had  never  been  known  to  laugh.  He  ate  with  those 
doomed  by  his  vengeance,  touched  them,  knee  to  knee,  as  they 
rode  in  column,  talked  with  them  of  love,  and  war,  and  politics, 
lifted  his  hand  to  his  hat  in  salute  as  he  bade  the  stationed 
guards  of  the  night  be  vigilant,  and  returned  in  an  hour  to  shoot 
them  through  the  forehead.  Dead  men  were  brought  in,  slain 
undoubtedly  by  the  unerring  hand  of  that  awful  yet  impalpable 
Nemesis,  and  he  turned  them  nonchalantly  over  in  the  sunlight, 
recognized  them  by  name,  spoke  something  of  eulogy  or  com- 
radeship by  the  wet  blankets  whereon  they  lay,  and  wrote  in  his 
dairy,  as  the  summing  up  of  a  day's  labor:  "Let  not  him  that 
girdeth  on  his  harness  boast  himself  as  he  that  putteth  it  off." 
If  any — thinking  strange  things  of  the  plausible,  reticent, 
elegant  man  going  his  way  and  keeping  his  peace — shot  some 
swift,  furtive  glance  at  him  as  he  stood  by  the  dead  of  his  own 
handicraft,  the  marble  face  moved  not  under  the  scrutiny.  He 
had  mastered  all  human  emotion,  and  sat  superbly  waiting  the 
denouement  as  though  he  felt  to  the  uttermost  that 
"The  play  was  the  tragedy  Man, 
And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  Worm." 

There  are  those  who  will  denounce  him  for  his  treachery  and 
seek  to  blacken  his  name  because  of  the  merciless  manner  in 
which  he  fought.  He  recks  not  now  of  either  extreme — the 
comradeship  that  would  build  him  a  monument  durable  as 
patriotism — or  the  condemnation  which  falsified  his  motives  in 
order  to  lessen  his  heroism.  For  Quantrell  the  war  commenced 
in  1856.  Fate  ordered  it  so,  and  transformed  the  ambitious  yet 
innocent  boy  into  a  Guerrilla  without  a  rival  and  without  a  peer. 
It  was  the  work  of  Providence — that  halt  by  the  river,  that 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER          49 

murderous  onslaught,  that  two  days'  battle  with  things  which 
mutilated,  those  hours  given  for  the  revenge  of  a  lifetime  to  be 
concentrated  within  a  single  span  of  suffering — and  Providence 
might  well  cause  this  for  epitaph  to  be  written  over  against  the 
tomb  of  Quantrell : 

"The  standing  side  by  side  till  death, 

The  dying  for  some  wounded  friend, 

The  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end, 

The  strong  endurance  till  the  breath 

And  body  took  their  ways  apart 

I  only  know.     I  keep  my  trust. 

Their  vices!  earth  has  them  by  heart; 

Their  virtuosi  they  are  with  their  dust." 

4 


CHAPTER  V. 
QUANTRELL'S  FIRST  BATTLES  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAS. 

E  war  drums  were  being  beaten  all  over  the  land.  Prone 
JL  amid  the  ruins  of  Fort  Sumpter  the  United  States  flag — 
symbolical  of  an  indivisible  nation — was  down  amid  its  debris,  the 
Palmetto,  in  lieu  of  it,  waving  high  over  the  ramparts.  It  was 
as  though  a  mighty  torch  had  been  cast  in  the  midst  of  the 
hatreds  and  the  passions  of  two  desperate  sections,  and  that 
the  thing  called  Civil  War  was  its  conflagration.  Armies  began 
to  muster.  People  with  picking  and  stealing  fingers  had  already 
commenced  to  count  the  chances  of  the  strife  and  take  sides 
with  the  strongest.  In  the  womb  of  the  future  the  typical 
American  Guerrilla  quickened  preternaturally.  Politicians 
became  soldiers,  and  statesmen  took  to  the  field.  Battle  was 
about  to  kill  men;  posterity  to  judge  them.  A  few  peace 
ravens — notably  in  Kentucky,  Maryland,  and  Missouri — croaked 
out  something  about  armed  neutrality  with  a  fiery  energy  of 
words  which  cost  nothing  to  weaponless  hands.  Here  and 
there  compromise — with  the  beautiful  mask  of  patriotism  hiding 
its  Medusa  head — seduced  from  the  standards  of  the  right  some 
noble  and  generous  spirits.  Imbecility  crept  into  corners,  and 
hypocrisy  admitted  at  last  that  war  cut  through  everything. 
The  hour  of  those  adventurous  souls  had  struck  who  believed  it 
a  necessary  diversion  to  the  universal  ferment.  They  hoped  to 
change  the  fanaticism  of  secession  into  the  fanaticism  of  glory, 
and  to  satisfy  the  conscience  of  the  border  States  by  intoxicating 
it  with  victory.  A  few  conservatives — sporadic  rather  than 
epidemical — threw  themselves  helplessly  across  the  path  of  the 
Revolution,  and  betwixt  weeping  and  lamentation  entreated  a 
hearing.  It  was  accorded  by  both  sections,  but  like  people  of 
half  parties  and  half  talents,  they  excited  neither  hatred  nor 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          51 

anger.  Events  stepped  across  their  prostrate  bodies  and 
marched  on  towards  results  that  were  utterly  absolute. 

Quantrell  did  not  enquire  which  side  he  should  de  fend  ;  brave, 
the  weaker;  Southerner,  the  Confederacy;  sincere,  the  right. 
His  position  made  his  creed.  From  Marion  to  him  the  appre- 
ciation of  duty  was  not  wide  apart,  the  one  understanding  it  as 
a  Christian  who  never  had  to  wear  sackcloth  because  he  was  out 
of  money  to  buy  absolution,  the  other  as  a  helpless  waif  blown 
westward  by  restless  emigration  winds  and  wrecked  upon  the 
pittiless  lee-shore  of  Kansas  hospitality.  If  for  both  there  had 
been  the  same  auspices,  one  would  have  cut  off  the  left  ear 
while  the  other  cut  off  the  right. 

In  May,  1861,  Quantrell  enlisted  in  Captain  Stewart's  company 
of  cavalry,  an  organization  composed  of  hardy  settlers  from 
what  was  then  known  as  the  Kansas  Neutral  Lands.  As  a 
private  he  served  with  conspicuous  daring  in  the  battles  of 
Carthage,  Wilson's  Creek,  and  Lexington,  but  especially  at  the 
latter  place  did  his  operations  in  presence  of  the  enemy  attract 
attention.  Mounted  there  on  a  splendid  horse,  armed  with  a 
Sharpe's  carbine  and  four  navy  revolvers,  for  uniform  a  red 
shirt,  and  for  oriflamme  a  sweeping  black  plume,  he  advanced 
with  the  farthest,  fell  back  with  the  last,  and  was  always  cool, 
deadly,  and  omnipresent.  General  Price — himself  notorious 
for  being  superbly  indifferent  under  fire — remarked  his  bearing 
and  caused  mention  to  be  made  of  it  most  favorably. 

Quantrell  marched  with  the  army  retreating  from  Lexington 
as  far  southward  as  the  Osage  River.  Winter  was  approaching, 
active  operations  could  not  go  on  in  the  nature  of  things  for 
some  time,  and  the  old  yearning  for  Guerrilla  service  came 
over  him  again  with  an  influence  that  would  not  be  resisted. 
Stewart,  the  captain,  knew  of  his  aspirations  for  several  days,  and 
so  did  General  Rains,  the  commander  of  the  division  to  which 
his  company  was  attached  as  an  independent  company.  Neither 
objected  and  Quantrell  turned  ba,ck  alone  from  the  Osage 
River,  skirted  rapidly  the  flanks  of  the  detached  cavalry  col- 
umns pursuing  General  Price,  and  arrived  in  Jackson  county 
late  in  the  autumn  of  1861.  At  first  his  exploits  were  confined 
to  but  eight  men — a  little  band  that  knew  nothing  of  war  save 
how  to  flight  and  to  shoot — who  lived  along  the  border  and  who 
had  already  some  scores  to  settle  with  the  Jayhawkcrs.  The 


52  NOTED  GUEBBILLAS,  OB 

original  eight — the  nucleus  of  a  Guerrilla  organization  which 
was  to  astonish  the  whole  country  twice — once  by  its  ferocity 
and  once  by  its  prowess — were  William  Haller,  James  and  John 
Little,  Edward  Coger,  Andrew  Walker — the  son  of  that  Morgan 
Walker  Quantrell  had  known  under  sterner  auspices  —  John 
Hampton,  James  Kelly,  and  Solomon  Basham.  Haller  —  a 
young  and  dauntless  spirit — was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
themselves  ignorant  of  their  own  powers  until  a  crisis  comes  in 
their  experience  and  circumstances  give  them  a  duty  to  perform. 
Just  of  age,  impetuous  as  Murat,  of  an  old  and  wealthy  family, 
handsome,  to  the  grace  of  a.  cavalier  adding  the  stern  political 
conviction  of  an  Ironside,  he  rode  through  his  fitful  military 
life  at  a  gallop  and  drank  the  wine  of  battle  to  its  dregs  before 
they  brought  him  back  from  his  last  combat — 

"The  life  upon  his  yellow  hair, 
But  not  within  his  eyes." 

These  eight  men,  or  rather  nine,  for  Quantrell  commanded — 
encountered  first  their  hereditary  enemies,  the  Jayhawkers. 
Lane  entered  Missouri  only  upon  grand  occasions ;  Jennison 
every  once  and  awhile  and  as  a  frolic.  One  was  a  colossal 
thief;  the  other  a  picayune  one.  Lane  dealt  in  mules  by  herds, 
horses  by  droves,  wagons  by  parks,  negroes  by  neighborhoods, 
household  effects  by  the  ton,  and  miscellaneous  plunder  by  the 
city  full ;  Jennison  contented  himself  with  the  pocket-books  of 
his  prisoners,  the  pin  money  of  the  women,  and  the  wearing 
apparel  of  the  children.  Lane  was  a  real  prophet  of  dema- 
gogueism,  with  insanity  latent  in  his  blood ;  Jennison  a  sans 
culotte  who,  looking  upon  himself  as  a  bastard,  sought  to  become 
legitimate  by  becoming  brutal. 

It  was  again  in  the  vicinity  of  Morgan  Walker's  that  Quan- 
trell with  his  little  command  ambushed  a  portion  of  Jennison 's 
regiment  and  killed  five  of  his  thieves,  getting  some  good 
horses,  saddles,  bridles,  and  revolvers.  The  next  fight  occurred 
upon  the  premises  of  Volney  Ryan,  a  citizen  of  Jackson  county, 
and  with  Company  A.,  of  Burris'  regiment  —  a  regiment  of 
Missouri  militia,  notorious  for  three  things — robbing  hen-roosts, 
stealing  horses,  and  running  away  from  the  enemy.  The  eight 
Guerrillas  struck  Company  A.  just  at  daylight,  charged  it  home, 
charged  through  it,  and  charged  back  again,  and  when  they 


GEORGE  TODD. 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER          53 

returned  from  the  pursuit  they  counted  fifteen  dead,  the  fruits 
of  a  running  battle. 

Chaos  had  now  pretty  well  come  again.  In  the  wake  of  a 
civil  war  which  permitted  always  the  impossible  to  the  strongest, 
beggars  got  upon  horseback  and  began  driving  everj'  decent 
thing  before  them  to  the  devil.  In  the  universal  upheaval  lean 
people  saw  how  they  might  become  fat,  and  paupers  how  they 
might  become  kings.  To  the  surface  of  the  cauldron — because 
of  the  tremendous  heat  beneath  it — there  came  things  mean, 
cowardly,  parasitical,  crouching,  contemptible,  bad.  Beasts  of 
prey  became  numerous,  and  birds  of  ill-omen  flew  hither  and 
thither.  The  law — it  was  the  sword ;  the  process — it  was  the 
bayonet;  the  constitution — it  was  hung  upon  a  gibbet;  the 
right — the 

41  Good  old  rule,  the  simple  plan, 

That  he  can  get  who  has  the  power, 

And  he  can  keep  who  can." 

One  Searcy,  claiming  to  be  a  Southern  man,  was  stealing  all 
over  Jackson  county  and  using  violence  here  and  there  when  he 
could  not  succeed  through  persuasion.  Quantrell  swooped 
down  upon  him  one  afternoon,  tried  him  that  night,  and  hung 
him  the  next  morning.  Before  they  pulled  him  up,  he  essayed 
to  say  something.  He  commenced:  "Not  so  fast,  gentlemen! 
It's  awful  to  die  until  red  hands  have  had  a  chance  to  wash 
themselves."  Here  his  voice  was  strangled  like  the  voice  of  a 
man  who  has  no  saliva  in  his  mouth.  Four  Guerrillas  dragged 
on  the  rope.  There  seemed  to  be — as  his  body  rested  at  last 
from  its  contortions — the  noise  as  of  the  waving  of  wings. 
Could  it  be  that  Searcy 's  soul  was  taking  its  flight?  Seventy-five 
head  of  horses  were  found  in  the  dead  man's  possession,  all 
belonging  to  citizens  of  the  county,  and  any  number  of  title 
deeds  to  lands,  notes,  mortgages,  and  private  accounts.  All 
were  returned.  The  execution  acted  as  a  thunder-storm,  it 
restored  the  equilibrium  of  the  moral  atmosphere.  The  border 
warfare  had  found  a  chief. 

The  eight  Guerrillas  had  now  grown  to  be  thirty.  Among 
the  new  recruits  were  David  Pool,  John  Jarrette,  William 
Gregg,  John  Coger,  Richard  Burns,  George  Todd,  George 
Shepherd,  Coleman  Younger,  and  several  others  of  like  enter- 
prise and  daring.  An  organization  was  at  once  effected,  and 


54  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Quantrell  was  made  Captain;  William  Haller,  1st  Lieutenant; 
William  Gregg,  2d ;  George  Todd.  3d ;  and  John  Jarrette, 
Orderly  Sergeant.  The  eagles  were  beginning  to  congregate ; 
the  lions  to  hunt  en  masse. 

Pool,  an  unschooled  Aristophanes  of  the  civil  war,  laughed 
at  calamity  and  rrfocked  when  any  man's  fear  came.  But  for  its 
picturesqueness,  his  speech  would  have  been  comedy  personified. 
He  laughed  loudest  when  he  was  deadliest,  and  treated  fortune 
with  no  more  dignity  in  one  extreme  than  another.  Gregg — a 
grim  Saul  among  the  Guerrillas — made  of  the  Confederacy  a 
mistrees,  and,  like  the  Douglass  of  old,  was  ever  tender  and 
true  to  her.  Jarrette,  the  man  who  never  knew  fear,  added  to 
an  immense  activity  an  indomitable  will.  Events  b  ent  to  him  as 
distance  disappeared  before  his  gallops.  He  was,  par  excellence, 
a  soldier  of  the  saddle.  John  Coger  never  missed  a  battle  nor 
a  bullet.  Wounded  twenty-two  times,  he  Jived  as  an  exemplifi- 
cation of  what  a  Guerrilla  could  endure — the  amount  of  lead  he 
could  comfortably  get  along  with  and  keep  fat.  Steadfastness 
was  his  test  of  merit — comradeship  his  point  of  honor.  He  who 
had  John  Coger  at  his  back  had  a  mountain.  Todd  was  the  in- 
carnate devil  of  battle.  He  thought  of  fighting  awake,  dreamed 
of  it  when  asleep,  mingled  talk  of  it  with  topics  of  the  day, 
studied  campaigns  as  a  relaxation,  and  went  hungry  many  a  day 
and  shelterless  many  a  night  that  he  might  find  an  enemy  and 
have  his  fill  of  battle.  Quantrell  had  always  to  hold  him  back, 
and  yet  he  was  his  thunderbolt.  He  discussed  nothing  in  the  shape 
of  orders.  A  soldier  who  discusses  is  like  a  hand  which  would 
think.  He  only  charged.  Were  he  attacked  in  front — a  charge; 
in  the  rear — a  charge ;  on  either  fiank — a  charge.  Finally,  in 
a  desperate  charge,  and  doing  a  hero's  work  upon  the  stricken 
roar  of  the  2d  Colorado,  he  was  killed.  This  was  George  Todd. 
Shepherd — a  patient,  cool,  vigilant,  plotting  leader — he  knew  all 
the  roads  and  streams,  all  the  fords  and  passes,  all  modes  of 
egress  and  ingress  ;  all  safe  and  dangerous  places  ;  all  the  treacher- 
ous non-combatants  and  the  trustworthy  ones — everything,  in- 
deed, that  the  few  needed  to  know  who  were  fighting  the  many. 
Burns  fought.  Others  might  have  ambition  and  seek  to  sport  the 
official  attributes  of  rank;  he  fought.  In  addition  there  were 
among  the  Guerrillas  few  better  pistol  shots.  It  used  to  do- 
Quantrell  good  to  see  him  on  the  skirmish  line.  Golem  an 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          55 

Younger — a  boy  having  about  his  neck  still  the  purple  track  a 
rope  ploughed  the  night  the  Jayhawkera  shot  down  his  old 
father  and  strung  him  up  to  a  black  jack — spoke  rarely,  and  was 
away  a  great  deal  in  the  woods.  What  was  he  doing,  his  com- 
rades began  to  enquire,  one  of  another.  He  had  a  mission  to 
perform — he  was  pistol  practicing.  Soon  he  was  perfect,  and 
then  it  was  noticed  that  he  laughed  often  and  talked  a  great 
deal.  There  had  come  to  him  now  that  intrepid  gaiety  which 
plays  with  death.  He  changed  devotion  to  his  family  into 
devotion  to  his  country,  and  he  fought  and  killed  with  the  con- 
science of  a  hero. 

The  new  organization  was  about  to  be  baptized.  B arris, 
raiding  generally  along  the  Missouri  border,  had  a  detachment 
foraging  in  the  neighborhood  of  Charles  Younger's  farm.  This 
Charles  Younger  was  an  uncle  of  Coleman,  and  he  lived  within 
three  miles  of  Independence,  the  countj^-seat  of  Jackson 
county.  The  militia  detachment  numbered  eighty-four  and  the 
Guerrillas  thirty-two.  At  sunset  Quantrell  struck  their  camp. 
Forewarned  of  his  coming,  they  were  already  in  line.  One 
volley  settled  them.  Five  fell  at  the  first  fire  and  seven  more 
were  killed  in  the  chase.  The  shelter  of  Independence  alone, 
where  the  balance  of  the  regiment  was  as  a  breakwater,  saved 
the  detachment  from  utter  extinction.  This  day — the  10th  of 
November,  1861,  Cole  Younger  killed  a  militiaman  seventy-one 
measured  yards.  The  pistol  practice  was  bearing  fruit. 

Independence  was  essentially  a  city  of  fruits  and  flowers. 
About  every  house  there  was  &  parterre  and  contiguous  to  every 
parterre  there  was  an  orchard.  Built  where  the  woods  and  the 
prairies  met,  when  it  was  most  desirable  there  was  sunlight,  and 
when  it  was  most  needed  there  was  shade.  The  war  found  it 
rich,  prosperous  and  contented,  and  it  left  it  as  an  orange  that 
had  been  devoured.  Lane  hated  it  because  it  was  a  hive  of 
secession,  and  Jennison  preyed  upon  it  because  Guerrilla  bees 
flew  in  and  out.  On  one  side  the  devil,  on  the  other  the  deep 
sea,  patriotism,  that  it  might  not  be  tempted,  ran  the  risk  very 
often  of  being  drowned.  Something  also  of  Spanish  intercourse 
and  connection  belonged  to  it.  Its  square  was  a  plaza ;  its  streets 
centered  there ;  its  court  house  was  a  citadel.  Truer  people 
never  occupied  a  town ;  braver  fathers  never  sent  their  sons  to 
war ;  grander  matrons  never  prayed  to  God  for  right,  and  purer 


56  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

women  never  waited  through  it  all — the  siege,  the  sack,  the  pil- 
lage and  the  battle — for  the  light  to  break  in  the  east  at  last,  the 
end  to  come  in  fate's  own  good  and  appointed  time. 

Quantrell  had  great  admiration  for  Independence ;  his  men 
adored  it.  Burris'  regiment  was  still  there — fortified  in  the 
court  house — and  one  day  in  February,  1862,  the  Guerillas 
charged  the  town.  It  was  a  desperate  assault.  Quantrell  and 
Pool  dashed  down  one  street,  Cole  Younger  and  Todd  down 
another,  Gregg  and  Shepherd  down  the  third,  Haller,  Coger, 
Burns,  Walker  and  others  down  the  balance  of  the  approaches 
to  the  square.  Behind  heavy  brick  walls  the  militia  of  course 
fought,  and  fought  besides  at  a  great  advantage.  Save  seven 
surprised  in  the  first  moments  of  the  rapid  onset  and  shot  down, 
none  others  were  killed,  and  Quantrell  was  forced  to  retire  from 
the  town  after  taking  some  necessary  ordnance,  quartermaster 
and  commissary  supplies  from  the  stores  under  the  very  guns  of 
the  court  house.  None  of  his  men  were  killed,  though  as  many 
as  eleven  were  wounded.  This  was  the  initiation  of  Indepen- 
dence into  the  mysteries  as  well  as  the  miseries  of  border  war- 
fare, and  thereafter  and  without  a  month  of  cessation,  it  was  to 
get  darker  and  darker  for  the  beautiful  town. 

Swinging  back  past  Independence  from  the  east  the  day  after 
it  had  been  charged,  Quantrell  moved  up  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Westport  and  put  scouts  upon  the  roads  leading  into  Kansas 
City.  Two  officers  belonging  to  Jennison's  regiment  were 
picked  up — a  Lieutenant,  who  was  young,  and  a  Captain,  who 
was  of  middle-age.  They  had  only  time  to  pray.  Quantrell 
always  gave  time  for  this,  and  had  always  performed  to  the 
letter  the  last  commissions  left  by  those  who  were  doomed. 
The  Lieutenant  did  not  want  to  pray.  "It  could  do  no  good," 
he  said.  uGod  knew  about  as  much  concerning  the  disposi- 
tion it  was  intended  to  be  made  of  his  soul  as  he  could  suggest 
to  him."  The  Captain  took  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  make  his 
peace.  Both  were  shot.  Men  commonly  die  at  God's  appointed 
time ;  beset  by  Guerrillas,  suddenly  and  unawares.  Another  of 
the  horrible  surprises  of  civil  war. 

At  first,  and  because  of  QuantrelPs  presence,  Kansas  City 
swarmed  like  an  ant-hill  during  a  rain-storm ;  afterwards,  and 
when  the  dead  officers  were  carried  in,  like  a  firebrand  had  been 
cast  thereon.  A  regiment  came  out  after  the  Guerillas,  but 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          57 

Quantrell  fell  back  through  Westport,  killed  nine  straggling 
Federals  there,  and  made  his  camp,  after  a  rapid  march,  at 
David  George's  place  on  the  Sni,  a  large  stream  of  water  in 
Jackson  county,  abounding  in  fastnesses  and  skirted  by  almost 
inaccessible  precipices  and  thickets.  From  the  Sni  to  the  Blue 
— another  Jackson  county  stream  historic  in  Guerrilla  annals — 
Quantrell  returned  the  third  day.  While  at  the  house  of  Charles 
Cowherd  a  courier  came  up  with  the  information  that  Indepen- 
dence, which  had  not  been  garrisoned  for  some  little  time,  was 
again  in  possession  of  a  company  of  militia.  Another  attack  was 
resolved  upon.  On  the  night  of  February  20th,  1862,  Quantrell 
marched  to  the  vicinity  of  the  town  and  waited  for  the  daylight. 
The  first  few  faint  streaks  in  the  east  constituted  the  signal. 
There  was  a  dash  altogether  down  South  Main  street,  a  storm 
of  cheers  and  bullets,  a  roar  of  iron  feet  on  the  rocks  of  the 
roadway,  and  the  surprise  was  left  to  work  itself  out.  It  did, 
and  reversely.  Instead  of  the  one  company  reported  in  posses- 
sion of  the  town,  four  were  found,  numbering  three  hundred 
men.  They  manned  the  court  house  in  a  moment,  made  of  its 
doors  an  eruption  and  of  its  windows  a  tempest,  killed  a  noble 
Guerrilla,  Young  George,  shot  Quantreli's  horse  from  under  him, 
held  their  own  everywhere  and  held  the  fort.  As  before,  all 
who  were  killed  among  the  Federals,  and  they  lost  seventeen, 
were  those  killed  in  the  first  few  moments  of  the  charge.  Those 
who  hurried  alive  into  the  court  house  were  safe.  Young 
George,  dead  in  his  first  battle,  had  all  the  promise  of  a  bright 
career.  None  rode  further  nor  faster  in  the  charge,  and  when 
he  fell  he  fell  so  close  to  the  fence  about  the  fortified  building 
that  it  was  with  difficulty  his  comrades  took  his  body  out  from 
under  a  point-blank  fire  and  bore  it  off  in  safety. 

It  was  a  part  of  QuantrelPs  tactics  to  disband  every  now  and 
then.  "Scattered  soldiers,"  he  argued,  "make  a  scattered 
trail.  The  regiment  that  has  but  one  man  to  hunt  can  never 
find  him."  The  men  needed  heavier  clothing  and  better  horses, 
and  the  winter,  more  than  ordinarily  severe,  was  beginning  to 
tell.  A  heavy  Federal  force  was  also  concentrating  in  Kansas 
City,  ostensibly  to  do  service  along  the  Mississippi  River,  really 
to  drive  out  of  Jackson  county  a  Guerrilla  band  that  under  no 
circumstances  possible  at  that  time  could  have  numbered  over 
fifty.  Quantrell,  therefore,  for  an  accumulation  of  reasons, 


58  NOTED  GUEREILLASy  OR 

ordered  a  brief  disbandment.  It  had  hardly  been  accomplished 
before  Independence  swapped  a  witch  for  a  devil.  Burris  evac- 
uated the  town ;  Jennison  occupied  it.  In  his  regiment  were 
trappers  who  trapped  for  dry  goods,  fishermen  who  fished  for 
groceries.  At  night  passers-by  were  robbed  of  their  pocket- 
books  ;  in  the  morning  market  women  of  their  meat  baskets. 
Neither  wiser,  perhaps,  nor  better  than  the  Egyptians,  the 
patient  and  all-suffering  citizens  had  got  rid  of  the  lean  kine  in 
order  to  make  room  for  the  lice. 

Alert  always,  and  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  ever  upon  the 
military  horizon,  Quantrell  ordered  a  rally  of  his  disbanded 
Guerrillas.  As  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  raiding  Highlanders, 
so  in  the  times  that  tried  men's  souls  along  the  border.  If 
R Roderick  Dhu  had  his  Malise,  Captain  Quantrell  had  his 
splendid  rider.  From  house  to  house  the  summons  flew.  The 
farmer  left  his  plow  to  speed  it,  the  maiden  forgot  her  trysting 
to  help  on  the  messenger,  settlement  spoke  to  settlement  through 
a  smoke  in  a  hollow  or  a  fire  on  a  hill,  patriotism  had  a  language 
unknown  to  the  invaders,  and  the  mustering-place  rarely  ever 
missed  a  man. 

At  the  appointed  time,  and  at  the  place  of  David  George,  the 
reassembling  was  as  it  should  be.  Quantrell  meant  to  attack 
Jennison  in  Independence  and  destroy  him  if  possible,  and  so 
moved  in  that  direction  as  far  as  the  Little  Blue  Church.  Here 
be  met  Allen  Farmer,  a  regular  red  Indian  of  a  scout,  who 
never  forgot  to  count  a  column  or  know  the  line  of  march  of  an 
enemy,  and  Farmer  reported  that  instead  'of  three  hundred 
Jayuawkers  being  in  Independence  there  were  six  hundred. 
Too  many  for  thirty-two  men  to  grapple,  and  fortified  at  that, 
they  all  said.  It  would  be  murder  in  the  first  degree  and 
unnecessary  murder  in  addition.  Quantrell,  foregoing  with  a 
struggle  the  chance  to  get  at  his  old  acquaintance  of  Kansas, 
flanked  Independence  and  stopped  for  the  night  at  the  residence 
of  Zan.  Harris,  a  true  Southern  man  and  a  keen  observer  of 
passing  events.  Early  the  next  morning  be  crossed  the  Big 
Blue  at  the  bridge  on  the  main  road  to  Kansas  City,  surprised 
and  shot  down  a  detachment  of  thirteen  Federals  watching  it, 
burned  the  structure  to  the  wtiter,  and  marched  rapidly  in  a 
south-west  direction,  leaving  Westport  to  the  right.  At  noon 
the  command  was  at  the  residence  of  Alexander  Majors,  a 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          59 

partner  in  that  celebrated  freighting  firm  of  Russell,  Majors  & 
Waddell,  the  pioneers  of  the  West  as  well  as  its  victims.  Rus- 
sell was  a  giant  in  a  civilization  which  produced  big  men.  The 
plains  were  immense  and  so  was  his  intellect.  He  planned  busi- 
ness as  generals  planned  campaigns,  and  took  in  the  whole 
territory  from  Philadelphia  to  Santa  Fe  at  a  glance.  Wnddell 
was  his  cabinet  man,  Majors  his  man  for  the  field.  Altogether 
they  established  an  empire  and  created  a  dynasty  which  took 
the  unscrupulous  power  of  a  venal  government  to  uproot  and 
destroy.  It  was  the  empire  of  business  sense  and  4he  dynasty 
of  executive  ability.  When  the  war  came  they  were  looked 
upon  as  disloyal  in  order  that  they  might  be  robbed,  and  Con- 
gress finished  what  the  government  had  begun.  In  revolutions 
there  is  no  repentance,  there  is  only  expiation ;  but  who  in  the 
end  is  to  make  good  this  plunder  of  its  citizens  by  a  power 
constituted  solely  to  protect  them? 

After  the  meal  at  Majors',  Quantrell  resumed  his  march, 
sending  Haller  and  Todd  ahead  with  an  advance  guard  and 
bringing  up  the  rear  himself  with  the  main  body  of  twenty- two 
men.  Night  overtook  him  at  the  Tate  House,  three  miles  east 
of  Little  Santa  Fe,  a  small  town  in  Jackson  county  close  to  the 
Kansas  line,  and  he  camped  there.  Haller  and  Todd  were  still 
further  along,  no  communication  being  established  between 
these  two  parts  of  a  common  whole.  The  day  had  been  cold 
and  the  darkness  was  bitter.  That  weariness  which  comes  with 
a  hard  ride,  a  rousing  fire,  and  a  hearty  supper,  fell  early  upon 
the  Guerrillas.  One  sentinel  at  the  gate  kept  drowsy  watchr 
and  the  night  began  to  deepen.  In  various  attitudes  and  in 
various  places,  twenty-one  of  twenty-two  men  were  sound 
asleep,  the  twenty-second  keeping  watch  and  ward  at  the  gate 
in  the  freezing  weather.  It  was  just  twelve  o'clock,  and  the  fire 
in  the  capacious  fire-place  was  burning  low.  Suddenly  a  shout 
was  heard.  The  well-known  challenge  of  "Who  are  you  ?"  arose 
on  the  night  air,  followed  by  a  pistol  shot,  and  then  a  volley. 
Quantrell,  sleeping  always  like  a  cat,  shook  himself  loose  from  his 
blankets  and  stood  erect  in  the  glare  of  the  firelight.  Three 
hundred  Federals,  following  all  day  on  his  trail,  had  marked  him 
take  cover  at  night  and  went  to  bag  him  boots  and  breeches. 
They  had  hitched  their  horses  back  in  the  brush  and  stole  upon 
the  dwelling  afoot.  So  noiseless  had  been  their  advance,  and  so 


60  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

close  were  they  upon  the  sentinel  before  they  were  discovered, 
that  he  had  only  time  to  cry  out,  fire,  and  rush  for  the  timber. 
He  could  not  get  back  to  his  comrades,  for  some  Federals  were 
between  him  and  the  door.  As  he  ran  he  received  a  volley,  but 
in  the  darkness  he  escaped. 

The  house  was  surrounded!  To  the  men  within-side  this 
meant,  unless  they  could  get  out,  death  by  fire  and  sword. 
Quantrell  was  trapped,  he  who  had  been  accorded  the  fox's 
cunning  and  the  panther's  activity.  He  glided  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  cautiously.  The  cold  stars  shone,  and  the  blue  figures 
under  them  and  on  every  hand  seemed  colossal.  The  fist  of  a 
heavy  man  struck  the  door  hard,  and  a  deep  voice  commanded : 
4 'Make  a  light."  There  had  been  no  firing  as  yet  save  the  shot 
of  the  sentinel  and  its  answering  volley.  Quantrell  went 
quietly  to  all  who  were  still  asleep  and  bade  them  get  up  and 
get  ready.  It  was  the  moment  when  death  had  to  be  looked  in 
the  face.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  heavy  fist  was  still 
hammering  at  the  door.  Quantrell  crept  to  it  on  tip-toe,  listened 
a  second  at  the  sounds  outside,  and  fired.  "Oh!"  and  a  stal- 
wart Federal  fell  prone  across  the  porch,  dying.  "You  asked 
for  a  light,  and  you've  got  it,  d — n  you,"  Quantrell  ejaculated, 
cooler  than  his  pistol  barrel.  Afterwards  there  was  no  more 
bravado.  "Bar  the  doors  and  barricade  the  windows!"  he 
shouted;  "quick,  men!"  Beds  were  freely  used  and  applicable 
furniture.  Little  and  Shepherd  stood  by  one  door;  Jarrette, 
Younger,  Toler,  and  Hoy  barricaded  the  other  and  made  the 
windows  bullet-proof.  Outside  the  Federal  fusilade  was  inces- 
sant. Mistaking  Tate's  house  for  a  frame  house  when  it  was 
built  of  brick,  the  commander  of  the  enemy  could  be  heard 
encouraging  his  men  to  shoot  low  and  riddle  the  dwelling. 
Presently  there  was  a  lull.  Neither  party  fired  for  the  space  of 
several  minutes,  and  Quantrell  spoke  to  his  people:  "Boys,  we 
are  in  a  tight  place.  We  can't  stay  here,  and  I  do  not  mean  to 
surrender.  All  who  want  to  follow  me  out  can  say  so  ;  all  who 
prefer  to  give  up  without  a  rush  can  also  say  so.  I  will  do  the 
best  I  can  for  them."  Four  concluded  to  appeal  to  the 
Federals  for  protection;  seventeen  to  follow  Quantrell  to  the 
death.  He  called  a  parley,  and  informed  the  Federal  com- 
mander that  four  of  his  followers  wanted  to  surrender.  "Lat 
them  come  out,"  was  the  order.  Out  they  went  and  the  fight 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          61 

began  again.  Too  eager  to  see  what  manner  of  men  their 
prisoners  were,  the  Federals  holding  the  west  front  of  the  house 
huddled  about  them  eagerly.  Ten  Guerrillas  from  the  upper 
story  fired  at  the  crowd  and  brought  down  six.  A  roar  followed 
this,  and  a  rush  back  again  to  cover  at  the  double  quick.  It 
was  hot  work  now.  Quantrell,  supported  by  James  Little,  Cole 
Younger,  Ho3r,  and  Stephen  Shores,  held  the  upper  story,  while 
Jarrette,  Toler,  George  Shepherd,  and  others  held  the  lower. 
Every  shot  told.  The  proprietor  of  the  house,  Major  Tate, 
was  a  Southern  hero,  gray-headed  but  Roman.  He  went  about 
laughing.  "Help  me  to  get  my  family  out,  boys,"  he  said, 
"and  I  will  help  you  to  hold  the  house.  It's  about  as  good  a 
time  for  me  to  die,  I  reckon,  as  any  other,  if  so  be  that  God 
wills  it.  But  the  old  woman  is  only  a  woman."  Another 
parley.  Would  the  Federal  commander  let  the  women  and 
children  out?  Yes,  gladly,  and  the  old  man  too.  There  was 
eagerness  for  this,  and  much  of  veritable  cunning.  The  family 
occupied  an  ell  of  the  mansion  with  which  there  was  no  com- 
munication from  the  main  building  where  Quantrell  and  his  men, 
were  save  by  way  of  a  door  which  opened  upon  a  porch,  and 
this  porch  was  under  the  concentrated  fire  of  the  assailants. 
After  the  family  moved  out  the  attacking  party  would  throw 
skirmishers  in,  and  then — the  torch.  Quantrell  understood  it 
in  a  moment,  and  spoke  up  to  the  father  of  the  family:  "Go 
out,  Major.  It  is  your  duty  to  be  with  your  wife  and  children." 
The  old  man  went,  protesting.  Perhaps  for  forty  years  the 
blood  had  not  coursed  so  pleasantly  and  so  rapidly  through  his 
veins.  Giving  ample  time  for  the  family  to  get  safely  beyond 
the  range  of  the  fire  of  the  besieged,  Quantrell  went  back  to  his 
post  and  looked  out.  He  saw  two  Federals  standing  together 
beyond  revolver  range.  "Is  there  a  shot-gun  here?"  he  asked. 
Cole  Younger  brought  him  one  loaded  with  buck-shot. 
Thrusting  half  his  body  out  the  nearest  window,  and  receiving 
as  many  volleys  as  there  were  sentinels,  he  fired  the  two  barrela 
of  his  gun  so  near  together  that  they  sounded  as  one  barrel. 
Both  Federals  fell,  one  dead,  the  other  mortally  wounded. 
There  followed  this  daring  and  conspicuous  feat  a  yell  so- 
piercing  and  exultant  that  even  the  horses,  hitched  in  the  timber 
fifty  yards  away,  reared  in  their  fright  and  snorted  with  terror. 
Black  columns  of  smoke  blew  past  the  windows  where  the 


62  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OE 

Guerrillas  were,  and  a  bright  red  flame  leaped  up  toward  the 
«ky  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.     The  ell  of  the  house  had  been 
fired,  and  was  burning  fiercely.     QuantrelPs  face — just  a  little 
paler  than  usual — had  a  set  look  that  was  not  good  to  see.    The 
tiger  was  at  bay.     Many  of  the  men's  revolvers  were  empty, 
and  in  order  to  gain  time  to  load  them,  another  parley  was  had. 
The  talk  was  of  surrender.     The  Federal  commander  demanded 
immediate  submission,  and  Shepherd,  with  a  voice  heard  above 
the  rage  and  the  roar  of  the  flames,  pleaded  for  twenty  minutes. 
No.    Ten?   No.    Five?  No.    Then  the  commander  cried  out  in  a 
voice  not  a  whit  inferior  to  Shepherd's  in  compass:    "You  have 
one  minute.    If,  at  its  expiration,  you  have  not  surrendered,  not 
a  single  man  among  you  shall  escape  alive."    i '•Thank  you,"  said 
Cole  Younger,   sotto   voce,  "catching   comes   before  hanging.'* 
"Count  sixty  Uien,  and  be  d — d  to  you,"  Shepherd  shouted  as  a 
parting  volley,  and  then  a  strange  silence  fell  upon  ail  these  des- 
perate men  face  to  face  with  imminent  death.     When  every  man 
was  ready,  Quantrell  said  briefly:   "Shot  guns  to  the  front.' 
Six,  loaded  heavily  with  buck-shot,  were  borne  there,  and  he  put 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  six  men  who  carried  them.     Behind 
these   were    those    having   only  revolvers.     In  single  file,    the 
charging  column  was  formed  in  the  main  room  of  the  building. 
The  glare  of  the  burning  ell  lit  it  up  as  though  the  sun  was 
shining  there.      Some  tightened   their  pistol  belts.      One   fell 
upon  his  knees  and  prayed.     Nobody  scotfed  at  him,  for  God 
was  in  that  room.     He  is  everywhere   when   heroes   confess. 
There  were  seventeen  who  were   about  to  receive  the  lire  ol 
three  hundred. 

Ready !  Quantrell  flung  the  door  wide  open  and  leaped  out. 
The  shot-gun  men— Jarre tte,  Younger,  Shepherd,  Toler,  Little 
and  Hoy  were  hard  behind  him.  Right  and  left  from  the  thin 
short  column  a  fierce  fire  beat  into  the  very  faces  of  the  Fed- 
erals, who  recoiled  in  some  confusion,  shooting,  ho  \vever,  from 
every  side.  There  was  a  yell,  and  a  grand  rush,  and  when  the 
end  had  come  and  all  the  fixed  realities  figured  up,  the  enemy 
had  eighteen  killed,  twenty-nine  badly  wounded,  and  five  pris- 
oners, and  the  captured  horses  of  the  Guerrillas.  Not  a  man  oi 
Quantrell's  command  was  touched,  as  it  broke  through  the  cor- 
don on  the  south  of  the  house  and  gained  the  sheltering  timber 
beyond.  Hoy,  as  he  rushed  out  the  third  from  Quantrell  and 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          63 

fired  both  barrels  of  his  gun,  was  so  near  to  a  stalwart  Federal 
that  he  was  struck  over  the  head  with  a  musket  and  knocked 
senseless.  To  capture  him  afterwards  was  like  capturing  a  dead 
man.  But  little  pursuit  was  attempted.  Quantrell  halted  at  the 
timber,  built  a  fire,  reloaded  every  gun  and  pistol,  and  took  a 
philosophical  view  of  the  situation.  Enemies  were  all  about 
him.  He  had  lost  five  men — four  of  whom,  however,  he  was 
glad  to  get  rid  of — and  the  balance  were  afoot.  Patience !  He 
had  just  escaped  from  an  environment  sterner  than  any  yet 
spread  for  him,  and  fortune  was  not  apt  to  offset  one  splendid 
action  by  another  exactly  opposite.  Choosing,  therefore,  a 
rendezvous  upon  the  head- waters  of  the  Little  Blue,  another  his- 
toric stream  of  Jackson  county,  he  reached  the  residence  of 
David  Wilson  late  the  next  morning,  after  a  forced  march  of 
great  exhaustion.  The  balance  of  the  night,  however,  had  still 
to  be  one  of  surprises  and  counter-surprises  not  alone  to  the 
Federals,  but  to  the  other  portion  of  Quantrell's  command 
under  Haller  and  Todd.  Encamped  four  miles  south  of  the 
Tate  House,  the  battle  there  had  aroused  them  instantly.  Get- 
ting to  saddle  quickly,  they  were  galloping  back  to  the  help  of 
their  comrades  when  a  Federal  force,  one  hundred  strong,  met 
them  full  in  the  road.  Some  minutes  of  savage  fighting  ensued, 
but  Haller  could  not  hold  his  own  with  thirteen  men,  and 
retreated,  firing,  to  the  brush.  Afterwards  everything  was 
made  plain.  The  four  men  who  surrendered  so  abjectly  at  the 
Tate  House  imagined  it  would  bring  help  to  their  condition  if 
they  told  all  they  knew,  and  they  told  wituout  solicitation  the 
story  of  Haller' s  advance  and  the  whereabouts  of  his  camp. 
An  hundred  men  were  instantly  despatched  to  surprise  it  or 
storm  it,  but  the  firing  had  aroused  the  isolated  Guerrillas,  and 
they  got  out  in  safety,  after  a  rattling  fight  of  some  twenty 
minutes. 

Moving  up  from  David  Wilson's  to  John  Flannery's,  Quan- 
trell waited  until  Haller  joined  him,  and  then  disbanded  for  the 
second  time,  fixing  his  rendezvous — when  all  the  men  were  well 
mounted  again — at  a  designated  point  on  the  Sni. 

In  April,  1862,  Quantrell,  with  seventeen  men,  was  camped 
at  the  residence  of  Samuel  C.  Clark,  situated  three  miles  south- 
east of  Stony  Point,  in  Jackson  county.  He  had  spent  the  night 
there  and  was  waiting  for  breakfast  the  next  morning,  when 


64  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Captain  Peabody,  at  the  head  of  one  hundred  Federal  cavalry,, 
surprised  the  Guerrillas  and  came  on  at  the  charge,  shooting 
and  yelling.  Instantly  dividing  the  detachment  in  order  that 
the  position  might  be  effectively  held,  Quantrell,  with  nine  men, 
took  the  dwelling,  and  Gregg,  with  eight,  occupied  the  smoke- 
house. For  a  while  the  fight  was  at  long  range,  Peabody  hold- 
ing tenaciously  to  the  timber  in  front  of  Clark's,  distant  about 
one  hundred  yards,  and  refusing  to  come  out.  Presently,  how 
ever,  he  did  an  unsoldierly  thing — or,  rather,  an  unskillful 
thing — he  mounted  his  men  and  forced  them  to  charge  the 
dwelling  on  horseback.  Quantrell's  detachment  reserved 
their  fire  until  the  foremost  horsemen  were  within  thirty  feet, 
and  Gregg  permitted  those  operating  against  his  position  to 
come  even  closer.  Then  a  quick,  sure  volley  and  twe  nty-seven 
men  and  horses  went  down  together.  Badly  demoralized, 
but  in  no  manner  defeated,  Peabody  rallied  again  in  the 
timber,  while  Quantrell,  breaking  out  from  the  dwelling- 
house  and  gathering  up  Gregg  as  he  went,  charged  the 
Federals  fiercely  in  return  and  with  something  of  success.  The 
impetus  of  the  rush  carried  him  past  a  portion  of  the  Federal 
line,  where  some  of  their  horses  were  hitched,  and  the  return  of 
the  wave  brought  with  it  nine  valuable  animals.  It  was  over 
the  horses  that  Andrew  Blunt  had  a  hand-to  -hand  fight  with  a 
splendid  Federal  trooper.  Both  were  very  brave.  Blunt  had 
just  joined.  No  one  knew  his  history.  He  asked  no  questions 
and  he  answered  none.  Some  said  he  had  once  belonged  to  the 
cavalry  of  the  regular  army ;  others,  that  behind  the  terrible 
record  of  the  Guerrillas  he  wished  to  find  iso  lation.  Singling  out 
a  fine  sorrel  horse  from  among  the  number  fastened  in  his  front, 
Blunt  was  just  about  to  unhitch  him  when  a  Federal  trooper, 
superbly  mounted,  dashed  down  to  the  line  and  fired.  Blunt 
left  his  position  by  the  side  of  the  horse  and  strode  out  in  the 
open,  accepting  the  challenge  defiantly  and  closing  with  his  an- 
tagonist. The  first  time  he  fired  he  missed,  although  many  of 
the  men  believed  him  a  better  pistol  shot  than  Quantrell.  The 
Federal  calmly  sat  his  horse,  fired  the  second  shot  deliberately 
and  again  missed.  Blunt  went  four  paces  towards  him,  took  a 
quick  aim  and  fired  very  much  as  a  man  would  at  something 
running.  Out  of  the  Federal's  blue  overcoat  a  little  jet  of  dust 
spurted  up  and  he  reeled  in  his  seat.  The  man,  hard  hit  in  the 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER          65 

right  breast,  did  not  fall,  however.  He  gripped  his  saddle  with 
his  knees,  cavalry  fashion,  steadied  himself  in  his  stirrups,  and 
fired  three  times  at  Blunt  in  quick  succession.  They  were  now 
but  twenty  paces  apart,  and  the  Guerrilla  was  shortening  the 
distance.  When  at  ten  he  fired  his  third  s  hot,  the  heavy  dra- 
goon ball  struck  the  gallant  Federal  fair  in  the  forehead  and 
knocked  him  dead  from  his  horse.  While  the  duel  was  in  pro- 
gress, brief  as  it  was,  Blunt  had  not  watched  his  rear,  to  gain 
which  a  dozen  Federals  had  started  from  the  extreme  right.  He 
saw  them,  but  he  did  not  hurry.  Going  back  to  the  coveted 
steed,  he  mounted  him  deliberately  and  dashed  back  through 
the  lines  closed  up  behind  him,  getting  a  fierce  hurrah  of  en- 
couragement from  his  own  comrades  and  a  wicked  volley  from 
the  enemy. 

It  was  time.  A  second  company  of  Federals  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, attracted  by  the  firing,  had  made  a  junction  with  Peabody 
and  were  already  closing  in  upon  the  houses  from  the  south. 
Surrounded  now  by  one  hundred  and  sixty  men,  Quantrell  was 
almost  in  the  same  desperate  strait  as  at  the  Tate  House.  His 
horses  were  in  the  hands  of  the  Federals,  it  was  some  little  dis- 
tance to  the  timber,  and  the  environment  was  complete.  Cap- 
tain Peabody,  himself  a  Kansas  man,  knew  who  led  the  forces 
opposed  to  him  and  burned  with  the  des  ire  to  make  a  finish  of 
this  Quantrell  and  his  reckless  band  at  one  clean  sweep.  Not 
content  with  the  one  hundred  and  sixty  men  already  in  positions 
about  the  house,  he  sent  off  post  haste  to  Pink  Hill  for  additional 
reinforcements.  Emboldened  also  by  their  numbers,  the  Federals 
had  approached  so  close  to  the  positions  held  by  the  Guerrillas 
that  it  was  possible  for  them  to  utilize  the  shelter  the  fences 
gave.  Behind  these  they  ensconced  themselves  while  pouring  a 
merciless  fusillade  upon  the  dwelling-house  and  smoke-house  in 
comparative  immunity.  This  annoyed  Quantrell,  distressed 
Gregg  and  made  Cole  Younger — one  of  the  coolest  heads  in 
council  ever  consulted — look  a  little  anxious.  Finally  a  solution 
was  found.  Quantrell  would  draw  the  fire  of  this  ambuscade  ; 
he  would  make  the  concealed  enemy  show  himself.  Ordering 
all  to  be  ready  and  to  fire  the  very  moment  the  opportunity  for 
execution  was  best,  he  dashed  out  from  the  dwelling-house  to 
the  smoke-house,  and  from  the  smoke-house  back  again  to  the 
dwelling.  Eager  to  kill  the  daring  man,  and  excited  somewhat 
5 


66  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,   OR 

by  tlieir  own  efforts  made  to  do  it,  the  Federals  exposed  them- 
selves recklessly.  Then,  owing  to  the  short  range,  the  revolvers 
of  the  Guerrillas  began  to  tell  with  deadly  effect.  Twenty  at 
least  were  shot  down  along  the  fences,  and  as  many  more 
wounded  and  disabled.  It  was  thirty  steps  from  one  house  to 
the  other,  yet  Quantrell  made  the  venture  eight  distinct  and 
separate  times,  not  less  than  one  hundred  men  firing  at  him  as 
he  came  and  went.  On  his  garments  there  was  not  even  the 
smell  of  fire.  His  life  seemed  to  be  charmed — his  person  pro- 
tected by  some  superior  presence.  When  at  la  st  even  this 
artifice  would  no  longer  enable  his  men  to  fight  with  any  degree 
of  equality,  Q  mntrell  determined  to  abandon  the  houses  and  the 
horses  and  make  a  dash  as  of  old  to  the  nearest  timber.  "I 
had  rather  lose  a  thousand  horses,"  he  said,  when  some  one  re-, 
monstrated  with  him,  "than  a  single  man  like  those  who  have 
fought  with  me  this  day.  Heroes  are  scarce ;  horses  are 
everywhere." 

In  the  swift  rush  that  came  now,  fortune  again  favored  him. 
Almost  every  revolver  belonging  to  the  Federals  was  empty. 
They  had  been  relying  altogether  upon  their  carbines  in  the 
fight.  After  the  first  onset  on  horseback — one  in  which  the 
revolvers  were  principally  used — they  had  failed  to  reload,  and 
had  nothing  but  empty  guns  in  their  hands  after  Quantrell  for 
the  last  time  drew  their  fire  and  dashed  away  on  the  heels  of  it 
to  the  timber.  Pursuit  was  not  attempted/  Enraged  at  the 
escape  of  the  Guerrillas,  and  burdened  with  a  number  of  dead 
and  wounded  altogether  out  of  proportion  to  the  forces 
engage  1,  Captain  Peabody  caused  to  be  burned  everything 
upon  the  premises  which  had  a  plank  or  a  shingle  about  it. 

Something  else  yet  was  also  to  be  done.  Getting  out 
afoot  as  best  he  could,  Quantrell  saw  a  company  of  cavalry 
making  haste  from  towards  the  direction  of  Pink  Hill.  It  was 
but  a  short  distance  to  where  the  road  he  was  skirting  crossed  a 
creek,  and  commanding  this  crossing  was  a  perpendicular  bluff 
inaccessible  to  horsemen.  Thither  he  hurried.  The  work  of 
am  bush  me  nt  was  the  work  only  of  a  moment.  George  Todd, 
alone  of  all  the  Guerrillas,  had  brought  with  him  from  the  house 
a  shot-gun.  In  running  for  life,  the  most  of  them  were  unin- 
cumbered.  Tue  approaching  Federals  were  the  reinforcements 
Peabody  had  ordered  up  from  Pink  Hill,  and  as  Quantrell's 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          67 

defence  had  lasted  one  hour  and  a  half,  they  were  well  on  their 
way.  As  they  came  to  the  creek  the  foremost  riders  halted  that 
their  horses  might  drink.  Soon  others  crowded  in.  until  all  the 
ford  was  thick  with  animals.  Just  then  from  the  bluff  above  a 
leaden  rain  fell  as  hail  might  from  a  cloudless  sky.  Rearing 
steeds  trampled  upon  wounded  riders.  The  dead  dyed  thf  clear 
water  red.  Wild  panic  laid  hold  of  the  helpless  mass  cut  into 
gaps,  and  flight  beyond  the  range  of  the  deadly  revolvers  came 
first  to  all  and  uppermost.  There  was  a  rally,  however.  Once 
out  from  under  fire  the  Lieutenant  commanding  the  detachment 
called  a  halt.  He  was  full  of  dash,  and  meant  to  see  more  of  the 
unknown  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  Dismounting  his  men  a*:d  putting 
himself  at  their  head,  he  turned  back  for  a  fight,  marching 
resolutely  forward  to  the  bluff.  Quantrell  waited  lor  the  the 
attack  to  develop  itself.  The  Lieutenant  moved  right  onward. 
When  within  fifty  paces  of  the  position,  George  Todd  rose  up 
from  behind  a  rock  and  covered  the  young  Federal  with  his 
unerring  shot-gun.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  kill  him,  he  was  so 
brave  and  collected,  and  yet  he  fell  riddled  just  as  he  had 
drawn  his  sword  and  shouted  "Forward!"  to  his  lagging  men. 
To  Todd's  signal  there  succeeded  a  fierce  revolver  volley,  and 
again  were  the  Federals  driven  from  the  hill  and  back  towards 
their  horses.  Satisfied  with  the  results  of  this  fight — made 
solely  as  a  matter  of  revenge  for  burning  Clark's  building — 
Quantrell  fell  away  from  the  ford  and  continued  his  retreat  on 
towards  his  rendezvous  upon  the  waters  of  the  Sni.  Peabody, 
however,  had  not  yet  had  his  say.  Coming  on  himself  in  the 
direction  of  Pink  Hill,  and  mistaking  these  reinforcements  for 
Guerrillas,  he  had  quite  a  lively  fight  with  them,  each  detach- 
ment getting  in  several  vollies  and  killing  and  wounding  a 
goodly  number  before  either  discovered  the  mistake. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

BATTLES  AND  SURPRISES. 

^~\UANTRELL  and  his  command  were  all  on  foot  again,  and 
^%>  Jackson  county  was  filled  with  troops.  At  Kansas  City 
there  was  a  large  garrison,  with  smaller  ones  at  Independence, 
Pink  Hill,  Lone  Jack,  Stoney  Point,  and  Sibley.  Peabody 
caused  the  report  to  be  circulated  that  a  majority  of  Quantrell's 
men  were  wounded,  and  that  if  the  brush  was  scoured  thor- 
oughly they  might  be  picked  up  here  and  there  and  summarily 
disposed  of.  Raiding  bands  therefore  began  the  hunt.  Old 
men  were  imprisoned  because  they  could  give  no  information  of 
a  concealed  enemy;  young  men  were  murdered  outright; 
women  were  insulted  and  abused.  The  uneasiness  that  had 
heretofore  rested  upon  the  county  gave  place  now  to  a  feeling 
of  positive  fear.  The  Jayhawkers  on  one  side  and  the  militia 
on  the  other  made  matters  hot.  All  travelling  was  dangerous. 
People  at  night  closed  their  eyes  in  dread  lest  the  morrow 
should  usher  in  a  terrible  awakening.  One  incident  of  the  hunt 
is  a  bloody  memory  yet  with  many  of  the  older  settlers  of 
Jackson  county.  An  aged  man  by  the  name  of  Blythe, 
believing  his  own  house  to  be  his  own,  fed  those  whom  he 
pleased  to  feed,  and  sheltered  all  whom  it  suited  him  to  shelter. 
Among  his  many  warm  personal  friends  was  Coleman  Younger. 
The  Colonel  commanding  the  fort  at  Independence  sent  a  scout 
one  day  to  find  Younger,  and  to  make  the  country  people  tell 
where  he  might  be  found.  Old  man  Blythe  was  not  at  home, 
but  his  son  was — a  fearless  lad  of  twelve  years.  He  was  taken 
to  the  barn  and  ordered  to  confess  everything  he  knew  of 
Quantrell,  Younger,  and  their  whereabouts.  If  he  failed  to 
speak  truly  he  was  to  be  killed.  The  boy,  in  no  manner 
frightened,  kept  them  some  moments  in  conversation,  waiting 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          69 

for  an  opportunity  to  escape.  Seeing  at  last  what  he  imagined 
to  be  a  chance,  he  dashed  away  from  his  captors  and  entered 
the  house  under  a  perfect  shower  of  balls.  There,  seizing  a 
pistol  and  rushing  through  the  back  door  towards  some  timber, 
a  ball  struck  him  in  the  spine  just  as  he  reached  the  garden 
fence  and  he  fell  back  dying  but  spendid  in  his  boyish  courage 
to  the  last.  Turning  over  on  his  face  as  the  Jayhawkers  rush- 
ed up  to  finish  him,  he  shot  one  dead,  mortally  wounded 
another,  and  severely  wounded  the  third.  Before  he  could 
shoot  the  fourth  time,  seventeen  bullets  were  put  into  his  body. 
It  seemed  as  if  God's  vengeance  was  especially  exercised  in  the 
righting  of  this  terrible  wrong.  An  old  negro  man  who 
happened  to  be  at  Blythe's  house  at  the  time,  was  a  witness  of 
the  bloody  deed,  and,  afraid  of  his  own  life,  ran  hurriedly  into 
the  brush.  There  he  came  unawares  upon  Younger,  Quantrell, 
Haller,  Todd,  and  eleven  of  their  men.  Noticing  the  great 
excitement  under  which  the  negro  labored,  they  forced  him  to 
tell  them  the  whole  story.  It  was  yet  time  for  an  ambuscade. 
On  the  road  back  to  Independence  was  a  pass  between  two 
embankments  known  as  "The  Blue  Cut."  In  width  it  was 
about  fifty  yards,  and  the  height  of  each  embankment  was  about 
thirty  feet.  Quantrell  dismounted  his  men,  stationing  some  at 
each  end  of  the  passage-way,  and  some  at  the  top  and  on  either 
side.  Not  a  shot  was  to  be  fired  until  the  returning  Federals 
had  entered  in,  front  and  rear.  From  the  Blue  Cut  this  fatal 
spot  was  afterward  known  as  the  Slaughter  Pen.  Of  the  thirty- 
eight  Federals  sent  out  after  Cole  Younger,  and  who,  because 
they  could  not  find  him,  had  brutally  murdered  an  innocent 
boy,  seventeen  were  killed,  while  five — not  too  badly  shot  to 
be  able  to  ride — barely  managed  to  escape  into  Independence, 
the  avenging  Guerrillas  hard  upon  their  heels. 

The  next  rendezvous  was  at  Reuben  Harris',  ten  miles  south 
of  Independence,  and  thither  all  the  command  went,  splendidly 
mounted  again  and  eager  for  employment.  Some  days  of 
preparation  were  necessary.  Richard  Hall,  a  fighting  black- 
smith who  shot  as  well  as  he  shoed,  and  knew  a  trail  as 
thoroughly  as  a  piece  of  steel,  had  need  to  exercise  much  of 
his  handiwork  in  order  to  make  the  horses  good  for  cavalry. 
Then  there  were  many  rounds  of  cartridges  to  make.  A 
Guerrilla  knew  nothing  of  an  ordnance-master.  His  laboratory 


70  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

was  in  his  luck.  If  a  capture  did  not  gain  him  caps,  he  had  to 
fall  back  on  ruse,  or  stratagem,  or  blockade-running  square 
out.  Powder  and  lead  in  the  raw  were  enough,  for  if  with  these 
he  could  not  make  himself  presentable  at  inspection  he  had  no 
calling  as  a  fighter  in  the  brush. 

It  was  Quantreli's  intention  at  this  time  to  attack  Harrison- 
ville,  the  county-seat  of  Cass  county,  and  capture  it  if  possible. 
With  this  object  in  view,  and  after  having  made  every  prepara- 
tion available  for  a  vigorous  campaign,  he  moved  eight  miles 
east  of  Independence,  camping  near  the  Little  Blue,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Job  Crabtree's.  He  camped  always  near  or  in  a 
house.  For  this  he  had  two  reasons.  First,  that  its  occupants 
might  gather  up  for  him  all  the  news  possible ;  and,  second, 
that  in  the  event  of  a  surprise  a  sure  rallying  point  would 
always  be  at  hand.  He  had  a  theory  that  after  a  Guerrilla  was 
given  time  to  get  over  the  first  effects  of  a  sudden  charge  or 
ambushment,  the  very  nature  of  his  military  status  made  him 
invincible  ;  that  after  an  opportunity  was  afforded  him  to  think, 
a  surrender  was  next  to  an  impossibility. 

Before  there  was  time  to  attack  Harrisonville,  however,  a 
scout  reported  Peabody  again  on  the  war-path,  this  time  bent  on 
an  utter  extermination  of  the  Guerrillas.  And  he  well  nigh 
kept  his  word.  From  Job  Crabtree's  Quantrell  had  moved  to 
an  unoccupied  building  known  as  the  Low  House,  and  then 
again  from  this  house  he  had  gone  to  some  contiguous  timber  to 
bivouac  for  the  night.  About  10  o'clock  the  sky  suddenly 
became  overcast,  a  fresh  wind  blew  up  from  the  east,  and  rain 
fell  in  torrents.  Again  the  house  was  occupied,  tne  horses 
bein£  hitched  along  the  fence  in  the  rear  of  it,  the  door  on  the 
south,  and  the  only  door,  having  a  bar  put  across  it  in  lieu  of  a 
sentinel.  Such  soldiering  was  perfectly  inexcusable,  and  it 
taught  Quantrell  a  lesson  he  remembered  to  the  day  of  his 
death.  In  the  morning  preceding  the  night  of  the  attack 
Lieutenant  Nash,  of  Peabody's  regiment,  commanding  two 
hundred  men,  had  struck  Quantreli's  trail,  lost  it  later  on,  and 
then  found  it  again  just  about  sun-set.  He  was  advised  of  his1 
having  gone  from  the  Low  House  to  the  brush,  and  of  his 
having  come  back  to  it  when  the  rain  began  to  fall  heavily.  To 
a  certain  extent  this  seeking,  shelter  was  a  necessity  on  the  part 
of  Quantrell.  The  men  had  no  cartridge  boxes,  and  not  all  of 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER          71 

them  overcoats.  If  once  their  ammunition  was  permitted  to 
become  damaged,  it  would  be  as  though  sheep  should  attack 
wolves.  Nash,  supplied  with  everything  needed  in  any  weather, 
waited  patiently  for  the  Guerrillas  to  become  snugly  ensconced 
under  shelter,  and  then  surrounded  the  house.  Before  a  gun 
was  fired,  the  Federals  had  every  horse  belonging  to  the 
Guerrillas,  and  were  bringing  to  bear  upon  the  only  door  every 
available  carbine  in  the  command.  At  first  all  was  confusion. 
Across  the  logs  which  once  had  supported  an  upper  floor,  some 
boards  had  been  laid,  and  sleeping  upon  them  were  Todd,  Blunt, 
and  William  Carr.  Favored  by  the  almost  impenetrable  darkness, 
Quantrell  determined  upon  an  immediate  abandonment  of  the 
house.  He  called  loudly  twice  for  all  to  follow  him  and  dashed 
through  the  door  under  a  galling  fire.  Those  in  the  loft  did  not 
hear  him,  and  maintained  in  reply  to  the  Federal  vollies  a  lively 
fusillade.  Then  Cole  Younger,  James  Little,  Joseph  Gilchrist, 
and  a  young  Irish  boy — a  brave  new  recruit — turned  back  to 
help  their  comrades.  The  house  became  a  furnace.  At  each  of 
the  two  corners  on  the  south  these  four  men  fought,  Younger 
calling  on  Todd  in  the  interval  of  every  volley  to  come  out  of 
the  loft  and  come  to  the  brush.  They  started  at  last.  It  was 
four  hundred  yards  to  the  nearest  she  Iter,  and  the  ground  was 
very  muddy.  Gilchrist  was  shot  down,  the  Irish  boy  was 
killed,  Blunt  was  wounded  and  captured,  Carr  surrendered, 
Younger  had  his  hat  shot  away,  Little  was  unhurt,  and  Todd, 
scratched  in  four  places,  finally  got  safely  to  the  timber.  But  it 
was  a  miracle.  Twenty  Federals  singled  him  out  as  well  as 
they  could  in  the  darkness  and  kept  close  at  his  heels,  firing 
whenever  a  gun  was  loaded.  Todd  had  a  musket  which,  when 
it  seemed  as  if  they  were  all  upon  him  at  once,  he  would  point 
at  the  nearest  and  make  pretense  that  he  was  going  to  shoot. 
When  they  halted  and  dodged  about  to  get  out  of  range,  he 
would  dash  away  again,  gaining  wtiat  space  he  could  until  he 
had  to  turn  and  re-enact  the  same  unpleasant  pantomime.  Reach- 
ing the  woods  at  last,  he  fired  point  blank  and  in  reality  now,  kill- 
ing with  a  single  discharge  one  pursuer  and  wounding  four.  Part 
of  Nash's  command  were  still  on  the  track  of  Quantrell,  but  after 
losing  five  killed  and  a  number  »wounded,  they  returned  again  to 
the  house  but  returned  too  late  for  the  continued  battle.  The 
dead  and  the  two  prisoners  were  all  that  were  left  to  them. 


72  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Little  Blue  was  bankfull,  and  the  country  was  swarming  with 
militia.  For  the  third  time  Quantrell  was  afoot  with  unrelenting 
pursuers  upon  his  trail  in  every  direction.  At  daylight  Nash 
would  be  after  him  again,  river  or  no  river.  He  must  get  over 
or  fare  worse.  The  rain  still  poured  down ;  muddy,  forlorn, 
well-nigh  worn  out,  yet  in  no  manner  demoralized,  just  as 
Quantrell  reached  the  Little  Blue  he  saw  on  the  other  bank 
Toler,  one  of  his  own  soldiers,  sitting  in  a  canoe.  Thence- 
forward the  work  of  crossing  was  easy,  and  Nash,  coming  on  an 
hour  afterwards,  received  a  volley  at  the  ford  where  he  expected 
to  find  a  lot  of  helpless  and  unresisting  men. 

This  fight  at  the  Low  House  occurred  the  first  week  in  May, 
1862,  and  caused  the  expedition  against  Harrisonville  to  be 
abandoned.  Three  times  surprised,  and  three  times  losing  all 
horses,  saddles,  and  bridles,  it  became  again  necessity  to 
disband  the  Guerrillas  in  this  instance  as  in  the  two  preceding 
it.  The  men  were  dismissed  for  thirty  days  with  orders  to 
remount  themselves,  while  Quantrell — taking  Todd  into  his 
confidence  and  acquainting  him  fully  with  his  plans — started  in 
his  company  for  Hannibal.  It  had  become  urgently  necessary 
to  replenish  the  supply  of  revolver  caps.  The  usual  trade  with 
Kansas  City  had  been  cut  off.  Of  late  the  captures  had  not 
been  as  plentiful  as  formerly.  Recruits  were  coming  in,  and 
the  season  for  larger  operations  and  enterprises  was  at  hand. 
In  exploits  where  peril  and  excitement  were  about  evenly 
divided,  Quantrell  took  great  delight.  He  was  so  cool,  so  calm ; 
he  had  played  before  such  a  deadly  game ;  he  knew  so  well  how 
to  sfirile  when  a  smile  would  win,  and  to  frown  when  a  frown 
was  a  better  card  to  play,  that  something  in  this  expedition 
appealed  to  everything  quixotic  in  his  intrepidity.  Todd  was  all 
iron ;  Quantrell  all  guile.  Todd  would  go  at  a  circular-saw ; 
Quantrell  would  sharpen  its  teeth  and  grease  it  where  the 
friction  was.  One  purred  and  killed ;  the  other  roared  and 
killed.  What  mattered  the  mode,  however,  so  only  the  end  was 
the  same. 

Clad  in  the  full  uniform  of  Federal  Majors — supplies  of 
which  Quantrell  kept  constantly  on  hand  even  at  a  day  so  early 
in  the  war  as  this — they  rode  to*  Hamilton,  a  little  town  on  the 
Hannibal  and  St.  Joseph  Railroad,  and  remained  for  the  night 
at  the  principal  hotel.  A  Federal  garrison  was  there — two 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER          73 

companies  of  Iowa  infantry — and  the  Captain  commanding  took 
a  great  fancy  to  Todd,  insisting  that  he  should  leave  the  hotel 
for  his  quarters  and  share  his  blankets  with  him.  , 

Two  days'  were  spent  in  Hannibal,  where  an  entire  Federal 
regiment  was  stationed.  Here  Quantrell  was  more  circumspect. 
"When  asked  to  give  an  account  of  himself  and  his  companion, 
he  replied  promptly  that  Todd  was  the  Major  of  the  Sixth 
Missouri  Cavalry  and  himself  the  Major  of  the  Ninth.  Unac- 
quainted with  either  organization,  the  commander  at  Hannibal 
had  no  reason  to  believe  otherwise.  Then  he  asked  about  that 
special  cut-throat  Quantrell.  Was  it  true  that  he  fought  under 
a  black  flag?  Had  he  really  ever  belonged  to  the  Jayhawkers? 
How  much  truth  was  in  the  stories  the  newspapers  told  of  his 
operations  and  his  prowess?  Quantrell  became  voluble.  In 
rapid  yet  picturesque  language  he  painted  a  perfect  picture  of 
the  war  along  the  border.  He  told  of  Todd,  Jarrette,  Blunt, 
Younger,  Haller,  Poole,  Shepherd,  Gregg,  Little,  the  Cogers, 
and  all  of  his  best  men  just  as  they  were,  and  himself  also  just 
as  he  was,  and  closed  the  conversation  emphatically  by  remark- 
ing: "If  you  were  here,  Colonel,  surrounded  as  you  are  by  a 
thousand  soldiers,  and  they  wanted  you,  they  would  come  here 
and  get  you." 

From  Hannibal — after  buying  quietly  and  at  various  times 
and  in  various  places  fifty  thousand  revolver  caps — Quantrell 
and  Todd  went  boldly  into  St.  Joseph.  This  city  was  full  of 
soldiers.  Colonel  Harrison  B.  Branch  was  there  in  command  of 
a  regiment  of  militia — a  brave,  conservative,  right-thinking 
soldier — and  Quantrell  introduced  himself  to  Branch  as  Major 
Henderson,  of  the  Sixth  Missouri.  Todd,  by  this  time,  had  put 
on  in  lieu  of  a  Major's  epaulettes,  with  its  distinguishing  leaf, 
the  barred  ones  of  a  Captain.  "Too  many  Majors  traveling 
together,"  quaintly  remarked  Todd,  "are  like  too  many  roses 
in  a  bouquet:  the  other  flowers  don't  have  a  chance.  Let  me 
be  a  Captain  for  the  balance  of  the  trip." 

Colonel  Branch  made  himself  very  agreeable  to  Major  Hen- 
derson and  Captain  Gordon,  and  asked  Todd  if  he  was  any 
relation  to  the  somewhat  notorious  Si.  Gordon,  of  Platte, 
relating  at  the  same  time  an  interesting  adventure  he  once  had 
with  him.  En  route  from  St.  Louis,  in  1861,  to  the  headquar- 
ters of  his  regiment,  Colonel  Branch,  with  one  hundred  and 


74  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

thirty  thousand  dollars  on  his  person,  found  that  he  would  have 
to  remain  over  night  in  Weston  and  the  better  part  of  the  next 
day.  Before  he  got  out  of  the  town  Gordon  took  it,  and  with 
it  he  took  Colonel  Branch.  Many  of  Gordon's  men  were  known 
to  him,  and  it  was  eminently  to  his  interest  just  then  to  renew 
old  acquaintanceship  and  be  extremely  complaisant  to  the  new. 
Wherever  he  could  find  the  largest  number  of  the  Guerrillas, 
there  he  was  among  them,  calling  for  whisky  every  now  and 
then,  and  telling  incessantly  some  agreeable  story  or  amusing 
anecdote.  Thus  he  got  through  with  what  seemed  to  him  an 
interminably  long  day.  Net  a  dollar  of  his  money  was  touched, 
Gordon  releasing  him  unconditionally  when  the  town  was 
abandoned  and  bidding  him  make  haste  to  get  out  lest  the  next 
lot  of  raiders  made  it  the  worse  for  him, 

For  three  days,  off  and  on,  Quantrell  was  either  with  Branch 
at  his  quarters,  or  in  company  with  him  about  town.  Todd 
elsewhere  and  indefatigable  was  rapidly  buying  caps  and 
revolvers.  Branch  introduced  Quantrell  to  General  Ben.  Loan, 
discussed  Penick  with  him  and  Penick's  regiment  —  a  St. 
Joseph  officer  destined  to  give  Quantrell  in  the  near  future  some 
stubborn  fighting — passed  in  review  the  military  situation, 
incidentally  referred  to  the  Guerrillas  of  Jackson  county  and 
the  savage  nature  of  the  warfare  going  on  there,  predicted  the 
absolute  destruction  of  African  slavery,  and  assisted  Quantrell 
in  many  ways  in  making  his  mission  thoroughly  successful. 
For  the  first  and  the  last  time  in  his  life  Colonel  Branch  was 
disloyal  to  the  governmc  nt  and  its  flag — he  gave  undoubted  aid 
and  encouragement  during  those  three  days  to  about  as  uncom- 
promising an  enemy  as  either  ever  had. 

From  St.  Joseph  Quantrell  and  Todd  came  to  Kansas  City  in 
a  hired  hack,  first  sending  into  Jackson  county  by  a  man 
unquestionably  devoted  to  the  South  the  whole  amount  of  the 
purchases  made  in  both  Hannibal  and  St.  Joseph. 

Within  three  miles  of  Kansas  City  a  Federal  sentinel  on 
outpost  duty  rudely  halted  the  driver  of  the  hack,  an  Irishman 
as  belligerant  as  a  game  cock,  and  wanted  to  know  who  lie  was, 
what  sort  of  people  his  passengers  were,  and  what  business 
decent  hackmen  had  traveling  at  such  an  unseemly  hour  of  the 
night.  The  driver  answered  curtly,  assuring  the  soldier  that  his 
passengers  were  two  Illinois  gentlemen,  and  that  they  were 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          75 

going  about  their  own  business  and  into  Kansas  City.  During: 
the  dialogue  Todd  quietly  opened  the  hack  door  opposite"  to  the 
sentinel  and  stepped  out.  Quantrell  followed  him.  It  was 
quite  dark,  but  they  knew  the  direction  from  the  course  of  the 
river  and  followed  it  down  to  the  farm  of  William  Bledsoe,  jv 
staunch  Southerner  and  a  man  of  immense  assistance  to  the 
Guerrillas  in  many  ways.  The  poor  driver,  however,  fared 
badly.  In  order  to  verify  the  truth  of  his  report,  the  sentinel 
examined  the  hack  for  himself,  only  to  find  it  empty.  Neither 
his  vociferations,  nor  the  Icok  of  genuine  surprise  upon  his  face 
at  the  trick  his  passengers  had  played  him,  saved  him  from  the 
guard  house  that  night,  and  from  a  good  long  term  in  prison 
afterwards. 

Blunt,  entirely  recovered  from  his  wound,  was  at  Bledsoe's. 
Three  nights  after  his  capture  he  had  escaped  from  Peahodyr 
taking  with  him  a  captain's  horse,  saddle  and  bridle,  and  killing 
two  of  the  guards  who  tried  to  halt  him.  With  Blunt  were  six 
others  of  the  command,  who  joined  Quantrell  and  came  on  with 
him  to  Jackson  county.  At  David  George's,  Gregg,  with 
another  detachment,  was  ready  for  work,  and  at  John  More's 
Jarrette  and  Younger — having  in  charge  another  detachment — 
were  waiting  for  the  sounding  of  the  tocsin.  Soon  a  veritable 
hornet's  nest  was  stirred  up,  the  swarming,  buzzing,  and  sting- 
ing of  the  next  few  days  being  desperately  wickad.  Quantrell 
had  not  yet  succeeded  in  getting  all  of  his  men  together 
when  a  scout  of  twenty-five  Federals  struck  four  of  his  men  at 
John  Shepherd's,  killed  Theodore  Blythe,  and  burned  a  couple 
of  houses  belonging  to  two  friends  of  the  Guerrillas.  An  eye 
for  an  eye  was  the  edict,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  Quantrell, 
resting  a  little  from  his  recent  trip,  was  at  Toler's  when  the 
news  of  the  raid  was  brought  to  him.  Taking  eight  men 
instantly  and  selecting  a  spot  on  the  Independence  and  Harri- 
sonville  road  eight  miles  south  of  Independence,  as  the  place  of 
ambuscade,  he  stationed  eight  as  deadly  men  to  do  his  deadly 
work  as  ever  mounted  a  horse  or  fired  a  pistol.  Quantrell  and 
George  Shepherd  occupied  what  might  be  called  the  centre  of 
the  line,  Jarrette,  Oil.  Shepherd,  and  Mart.  Shepherd,  the  rear 
or  left,  and  Todd,  Blunt,  Little,  and  Younger  the  front  or  right. 
As  a  signal — when  the  rear  files  of  the  Federal  column  had 
passed  well  beyond  John  Jarrette  and  his  two  comrades — Jar- 


76  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

rette  was  to  fire,  aiid  then  the  entire  squad  was  to  charge. 
Every  order  was  obeyed  to  the  letter.  Never  a  bloodier  over- 
throw followed  a  IrL-fer  fight.  Three  minutes — five  at  the  very 
furthest — ended  all.  Only  one  out  of  twenty-five  escaped. 
Furious  before,  this  savage  episode  made  Peabody  ferocious. 
He  swarmed  out  of  Independence  with  two  hundred  men  and 
spread  himself  over  the  country,  shooting  at  every  male  thing 
he  saw.  Quantrell,  Jarrette,  and  Todd  were  together  and  were 
pressed  by  twenty  Federals  for  seventeen  miles.  It  was  a  stern 
•chase  and  a  long  one,  and  ended  only  when  the  night  fell,  each 
Guerrilla  losing  his  horse,  and  each  receiving  a  slight  wound. 
Seven  of  the  twenty  pursuers  were  killed  and  five  wounded. 
At  John  Shepherd's,  Younger,  Oliver  Shepherd  and  George 
Shepherd  were  surrounded  by  another  detachment  of  Federals 
numbering  thirty-two.  Everything  fought  about  the  premises. 
Indeed  it  was  a  day  of  battles  in  Jackson  county — battles  of 
twos  and  threes — battles  of  squads  and  parts  of  companies — 
battles  by  bush  and  stone — battles  here,  there,  and  everywhere. 
It  was  getting  hot  for  the  three  Guerrillas  in  John  Shepherd's 
house,  and  Cole  Younger  was  just  on  the  eve  of  sallying  out  at 
the  head  of  the  two  Shepherds,  when  Scott,  Martin  Shepherd, 
John  Coger,  and  Little  attacked  the  Federals  furiously  in  the 
rear,  making  a  sufficient  diversion  for  all  purposes  of  escape. 

It  was  time  to  concentrate ;  the  Guerrillas  were  being 
devoured  piece-meal.  .Quantrell  multiplied  himself.  Gathering 
up  Haller  at  Morgan  Walker's,  and  Gregg  at  Stony  Point,  he 
galloped  down  into  Johnson  county  in  order  to  scatter  his  trail 
a  little.  In  the  intervals  of  picquet  fighting  he  recruited. 
Some  splendid  fellows  came  to  him  here — John  Brinker,  Ogden, 
Halley,  McBurgess,  Thomas  Little,  Joseph  Fickell,  William 
Davenport,  and  several  others.  In  a  week  he  was  back  again 
in  Jackson  county,  and  from  Jackson  county  into  Kansas, 
surprising  the  town  of  Aubry,  capturing  its  garrison,  consisting 
of  one  company,  and  putting  all  but  one  to  the  sword  who  were 
not  killed  in  the  attack.  This  single  exception  was  a  younor 
Lieutenant  from  Brown  county,  clever  of  speech,  amiable  of 
disposition,  and  artless  as  a  school  girl.  He  seemed  never  to 
have  realized  the  manner  of  men  who  had  him.  Not  so  much  a 
philosopher  as  he  was  free  from  guile,  he  became  an  enigma  to 
the  Guerrillas  because  they  had  never  made  the  acquaintance  of 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER          77 

his  species.  Quantrell  kept  him  for  purposes  of  exchange.  A 
good  man  of  his,  Hoy,  had  been  knocked  senseless  the  night  of 
the  fight  at  the  Low  House,  and  captured,  and  he  wanted  to  get 
him  released.  The  Lieutenant  was  offered  in  exchange  for  the 
private,  but  not  for  the  Guerrillas  were  any  of  the  immunities 
of  civilized  war ;  Quantrell's  courteous  application  was  thrown 
back  rudely  in  his  face.  The  lines  were  being  drawn  tightly 
now,  and  before  the  summer  was  over  and  the  harvests  were 
ended,  the  Black  Flag  would  be  raised. 

What  should  be  done  with  the  Lieutenant?  Many  said  death. 
To  spare  a  Kansas  man  was  to  offend  the  God  of  a  Guerrilla. 
To  take  a  prisoner  and  then  not  to  kill  him,  was  an  insult  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  ambuscade.  These  desperate  men  had  laws, 
however — unwritten  but  none  the  less  inexorable  on  account  of 
it.  One  especially  accorded  life  to  any  prisoner  vouched  for  or 
endorsed  by  any  Guerrilla.  Quantrell  stood  for  the  Lieutenant. 
Thenceforward  those  who  at  first  demanded  his  life,  would  have 
defended  it  to  the  last  cartridge.  As  Quantrell  was  in  the  act 
of  releasing  him  a  few  days  afterwards,  he  said  in  parting:  "Go 
back  to  your  people.  I  like  you  very  much,  but  between  them 
and  me  there  can  never  again  be  peace.'*  Still  as  one  who 
seemed  incapable  of  understanding  his  situation,  the  Lieutenant 
thanked  him  and  replied:  "As  for  me,  I  never  hurt  any  one  in 
my  life."  Civil  war,  which  leaves  nothing  but  tombs,  here  left 
a  fountain. 

The  conflict  deepened.  The  tide  of  the  conflict  was  at  its 
flood.  Many  eyes  were  attracted  towards  Quantrell,  and  many 
journalists  were  busy  with  the  tale  of  his  exploits.  Imagination 
made  of  him  a  monster.  No  crime  was  too  black  for  him ;  no 
atrocity  too  brutal;  no  murder  too  monstrous;  no  desperate 
deed  too  improbable.  Let  all  the  West  be  harried,  and  the  tiger 
slain  in  his  lair ! 

The  hunt  began.  Quantrell  passed  again  through  Jackson 
county  and  entered  Johnson  from  the  west.  At  Mrs.  Daven- 
port's he  met  first  a  company  of  militia  and  dealt  them  one  of 
his  telling  blows,  killing  eleven,  and  pushing  the  balance  back 
into  Warrensburg.  The  taste  of  such  Guerrilla  work  as  this 
was  bitter  in  the  mouth  of  the  Federal  commander  at  Warrens- 
burg,  and  he  spat  his  dread  at  Quantrell  over  the  petticoats  of  a 
lot  of  women.  Arresting  Miss  Brinker,  the  sister  of  John 


78  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OR 

Brinker,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished 
women  of  the  West,  he  put  her  at  the  head  of  two  hundred  men, 
together  with  four  other  Southern  girls,  and  rode  through  the 
county  in  this  fashion,  hunting  for  Quantrell.  Ambushed 
alonir  the  high  road,  and  having  in  his  favor  position,  prowess, 
and  experience,  Quantrell  yet  saw  the  whole  line  pass  by  him  as 
it  were  in  review,  firing  not  a  gun  at  them,  nor  charging  a 
single  squadron.  Unknown  to  all  of  them,  these  angels  of  the 
column  had  saved  it  from  destruction.  Baffled  thus  thrice  by 
the  presence  of  these  women,  who  were  held  a  week  as  hostages, 
Quantrell  abandoned  active  operations  for  the  time  and  went 
into  camp  at  Captain  Perdue's,  sending  out  detachments  hither 
and  thither  in  quest  of  ammunition  and  adventure.  The 
supplies  sent  forward  from  St.  Joseph  some  time  before  had  not 
yet  arrived.  Stinted  somewhat  in  revolver  caps,  and  deficient 
somewhat  in  navy  revolvers,  a  well  contested  fight  of  an  hour  or 
two  generally  left  the  command  unable  to  be  effective  until  the 
next  day.  Cole  Younger  and  George  Shepherd  were  sent  into 
Jackson  county,  therefore,  to  procure  ammunition ;  others  were 
ordered  into  Cass  for  horses ;  while  Todd,  having  a  command 
of  twelve  men,  had  made  for  him  the  opportunity  so  ardently 
-desired,  of  conducting  a  raid  into  Kansas.  Then  the  lighting 
began  again — a  week  of  fruitful  and  extended  fighting.  Haller, 
in  Cass,  the  very  first  day,  met  twenty  militia  on  an  open  prairie 
with  five  men  and  cut  the  whole  squad  to  pieces.  He  relied 
always  on  the  charge,  and  drilled  his  men  constantly  in  horse- 
back firing,  the  faster  the  horses  went  the  better  the  shooting. 
When  these  twenty  Federals  came  upon  him,  he  halted  his 
squad  and  asked  each  man  by  name  what  should  be  done.  "A 
fight  or  a  footrace,  eh,  boys?"  This  was  Haller.  Little  said 
charge,  Coger  said  charge,  Poole  said  the  same,  Blunt  the  same, 
they  all  said  it,  and  charge  it  was.  A  charge  on  the  prairie 
means  death.  No  trees,  no  hollows,  no  stones,  no  shelter — 
body  to  body  and  hand  to  hand — this  is  prairie  fighting. 
Prowess  tells.  Death  helps  him  who  fears  him  least.  He  who 
dodges  is  in  danger.  Fortune's  great  uncertain  eye  looks  down 
upon  the  melee  and  brightens  when  it  falls  upon  the  bravest. 
The  quickest  is  the  safest ;  the  coolest  the  least  exposed. 

Haller's  attack  was  a  hurricane  ;  a  little  cloud  no  bigger  than 
a  man's  hand  grappled  with  the  horizon.     His  pistol  practice 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER          79 

was  superb.  Beyond  the  killing  there  was  a  singular  episode. 
With  the  Federals,  and  in  the  forward  file,  was  a  scout,  sun- 
browned  and  huge,  who  had  for  uniform  a  complete  suit  of 
buckskin.  Evidently  a  plainsman  and  an  ugly  customer,  he 
shot  swiftly  yet  without  effect.  Some  about  him  stood  not  for 
the  onset;  he  awaited  it  as  though  it  were  the  coming  of 
buffalo.  Dave  Poole  singled  him  out,  and  as  he  closed  with 
him,  contrary  to  his  custom,  demanded  a  surrender.  Buckskin 
laughed  a  little  scornfully,  lifted  himself  up  high  in  his  stirrups, 
leant  over  far  to  the  right  and  grasped  with  his  left  hand,  as 
with  a  grasp  of  iron,  Poole's  long  black  beard.  In  his  right 
hand  a  bright  bowie  knife  shone.  "Gracious!"  cried  Poole, 
always  grotesque,  "here's  your  regular  Indian  fighter;  but 
scalp  or  no  scalp,  he's  powerful  strong."  And  he  was.  He 
held  Pool  so  close  to  him  that  he  could  not  use  his  revolver,  and 
while  he  held  him  he  was  working  viciously  with  his  knife.  One 
slash  cut  into  his  right  shoulder,  another  gashed  his  cheek,  a 
third  scored  his  left  arm  deeply,  and  the  fourth  might  have 
gone  surer  home,  when  Haller,  acquit  of  all  who  had  come 
before  him,  turned  back  to  the  rescue  and  shot  the  frontiersman 
dead  from  his  saddle.  "As  he  lay,"  said  Poole  afterwards, 
"he  looked  in  length  about  eight  feet." 

Younger  and  Shepherd  worked  hard  and  fast,  and  got 
together  a  load  of  ammunition — sufficient  for  a  week  of  solid 
service.  While  after  a  wagon  to  haul  it  out,  seventy-five 
Federals  surrounded  them  in  a  house  and  demanded  a  sur- 
render. No !  the  word  was  not  in  their  vocabulary.  Close  to 
the  house  stood  an  orchard,  and  growing  luxuriantly  in  this  a 
heavy  crop  of  rye.  Where  it  was  thickest  their  horses  had 
been  hitched,  and  beyond  the  horses  was  a  skirt  of  timber. 
Gaining  the  first  under  a  shower  of  balls,  thev  soon  gnined  the 
other,  but  not  unhurt.  Four  buckshot  had  struck  Youi^ger, 
three  drawing  blood,  and  Shepherd  was  hit  too  hard  to  ride 
beyond  the  nearest  shelter. 

As  Todd  came  along  on  the  road  to  Kansas,  Younger  joined 
him  near  the  Blue  and  struck  the  enemy  about  the  line.  Some 
fighting  occurred,  as  the  night  came,  but  Todd  chang3d  his 
position  further  to  the  west,  crossiug  into  Kansas  to  the  right  of 
Olathe.  Six  government  wagons  loaded  with  supplies,  and 
•convoyed  by  parts  of  two  infantry  companies,  were  his  first 


80  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

emoluments.  Scattered  along  the  highway  in  disorder,  and 
drunk,  some  of  them,  to  incapacity,  the  poor  infantry  fellows 
didn't  know  a  Guerrilla  from  a  gate-post.  Todd  went  through 
the  convoy  at  a  canter,  sparing  nothing  along  the  line.  One 
huge  Dane,  very  drunk  and  very  noisy,  took  a  couple  of  minutes 
to  die,  seventeen  revolver  bullets  in  his  body,  and  four  thrusts 
of  his  own  bayonet. 

In  one  wagon  there  was  whisky,  and  before  Todd  knew  it,, 
several  of  his  men  were  boisterous  ;  they  demanded  more  blood. 
Having  turned  back  with  his  captures  toward  Missouri,  Todd 
left  with  them  a  small  escort  and  started  forward  again  in  order 
to  gratify  this  demand — one  which  accorded  so  well  with  his 
own  desires.  Where  Quantrell  had  burned  the  bridge  over  Big 
Blue  upon  the  road  leading  from  Independence  to  Kansas  City, 
the  Federals  had  established  a  ferry.  An  old  tete  du  pont  there 
had  been  turned  into  a  stockade,  garrisoned  by  half  a  company. 
Todd  stalked  it  as  a  Highlander  stalks  red  deer.  When  he 
could  no  longer  walk,  he  crept;  when  he  could  no  longer 
creep,  he  crawled.  Some  fog  was  on  the  river,  and  here  and 
there  a  fire  with  a  smoke,  which  lay  heavy  along  the  under- 
growth. Doomed  men  have  no  dreams.  Armed  shadows  rose 
slowly  out  of  the  ground,  and  yet  they  did  not  see  them.  This 
mirage  of  the  rising  of  armed  men  ia  well  known  to  persons 
accustomed  to  frequent  ambuscades.  This  day.  at  the  ford 
nineteen  Federals  were  doing  duty,  and  when  Todd  reached 
the  river  they  were  in  a  large  flatboat  crossing  from  the 
Independence  to  the  Kansas  City  side.  Merriment  abounded 
with  them,  and  a  sentimental  young  soldier  was  heard  clearly 

to  sing: 

"The  cruel  war  is  over, 

Ouce  more  with  her  is  he : 
'You've  learnt  to  love  since  last  we  met,' 

He  says,  but  nought  says  she. 
<You'll  wed  the  happy  Somebody, 

And  me  you'll  quite  forget! 

Would  I  were  he,  my  darling  1» 

TOM  are/'  cried  Colinette." 

It  was  of  love  and  a  furlough,  and  something  sweet  at  the 
last—something  that  tasted  of  red  lips  and  of  devotion.  Poor 
fellow!  He  did  not  wait  until  the  end  of  the  war  before  hia 
furlough  came  to  him  forever.  Others  talked  loudly.  Some 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER          81 

trailed  trickling  fingers  through  the  water.  A  few  scanned  the 
western  bunk,  but  saw  nothing.  Ttie  boat's  bow  was  on  the 
beach,  and  a  hand  had  been  lifted  to  the  rope  to  make  it  fast ; 
but  what  mattered  the  boat — death  was  there.  Not  a  soul 
escaped.  Ten  fell  dead  the  first  fire,  four  leaped  into  the  river 
and  were  drowned,  and  five  were  finished  leisurely.  Todd's 
ambushments  were  parts  of  the  ferocity  of  a  system,  and  not 
the  ferocity  of  his  nature.  The  youth  of  the  love  song  might 
have  been  spared  had  the  bullets  been  any  respecter  of  persons. 
The  boat  was  sunk,  the  dead  were  not  even  buried,  and  Todd 
galloped  on  to  rendezvous  at  Reuben  Harris'.  With  the  blood 
scarcely  washed  from  his  hands,  or  the  powder  smoke  from  his 
face,  he  hastened  on  the  next  morning  to  another  ambuscade  on 
the  Harrisonville  and  Independence  road.  South  of  the 
residence  of  John  Fristoe  there  grew  a  hazel  thicket  of  con- 
spicuous hiding  capacity.  Up  from  the  midst  of  it  a  lone  elm 
reared  itself,  tall  and  shapely.  Todd  remarked  it  standing  like 
a  sentinel,  and  spoke  to  Younger:  "God  put  it  there  for  some 
wise  purpose.  Let  a  good  climber  climb  to  its  top  and  tell  us 
of  the  country."  This  unaffected  reliance  upon  the  wisdom  of 
God  is  heard  often  where  the  work  to  be  done  is  veritable 
devil's  work. 

Martin  Shepherd,  agile  as  a  squirrel  of  the  hills,  mounted 
quickly  to  the  lookout,  and  reported  just  as  quickly  the 
advance  of  a  Federal  column.  Fired  upon  at  the  distance  of 
twenty  feet,  and  charged  simultaneously  with  the  volley,  five 
fell  from  their  horses  dead  and  a  number  wounded  rushed  away 
in  retreat,  keeping  their  saddles  with  difficulty.  Only  the 
covering  party  of  a  column  two  hundred  strong  had  been 
encountered,  and  while  Blunt,  Younger,  James  Von,  William 
Bledsoe,  Dick  Yager,  and  Vis.  Acres  were  down  in  the  road 
gathering  up  revolvers,  ammunition,  and  such  other  things  of 
the  dead  as  were  needed,  the  main  body  came  rushing  on,  firing 
furiously  and  bent  on  revenge.  Todd  fell  back  slowly  on  foot 
to  his  horses,  mounted  in  no  haste,  and  skirmishing  then  and  in 
fine  order  gained  the  timber.  Each  soldier,  besides  the  horse 
he  rode,  had  three  others  to  protect,  thus  making  the  question 
not  so  much  one  of  fighting  as  taking  care  of  the  captures. 
Five  scouts — Yager,  Blunt,  Von,  Younger,  and  Shepherd— were 
thrown  forward  to  find  the  enemy,  who  had  not  pursued.  Five 
6 


52  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OR 

better  men  never  took  a  hot  trail  at  a  gallop — eager,  daring, 
splendidly  mounted,  and  pressing  always  forward  for  a  closer 
fight.  After  a  swinging  gallop  of  several  miles,  a  Federal  rear 
guard,  seventy-five  strong,  was  struck  at  the  house  of  Dr. 
Pleasant  Lee.  The  five  fought  the  seventy-five.  At  the  first 
fire  Von  killed  an  orderly  sergeant,  and  kept  closing  up.  For 
twenty  seconds  or  so  the  melee  was  fierce.  The  first  line  formed 
across  the  road  to  stop  the  Guerrillas  was  rode  over  or  cut  to 
pieces,  the  second  gave  way,  and  the  third  faltered.  Then  the 
whole  rear  guard  formed  behind  a  stone  fence,  the  balance  of 
seventy-five  on  the  defensive  against  five.  At  such  odds  the 
Guerrillas  fought  continually.  Younger  returned  to  Todd, 
reported  the  coast  clear,  and  advised  that  a  push  be  made 
rapidly,  and  at  once  for  the  camp  of  Quantrell,  the  captured 
Kansas  wagons  now  having  come  up,  and  the  necessary  horses  to 
mount  all  the  new  recruits  having  been  secured. 

Moving  by  way  of  Blue  Springs  and  Pink  Hill,  and  on 
towards  headquarters  at  Stony  Point,  Todd  was  set  upon  and 
hard  bestead.  The  prince  of  ambuscaders  fell  into  an  ambus- 
cade. The  man  of  the  surprise  and  the  sudden  volley,  had  his 
own  tactics  administered  to  him,  none  the  less  unpalatable 
because  of  their  being  familiar.  Seventy-five  Federals  laid  a 
trap  for  him  close  to  the  Sni,  and  he  rode  into  it  snugly.  If  to 
the  skillfulness  of  the  ambushment  there  had  been  added  the 
coolness  of  the  Guerrilla,  decidedly  the  credit  side  of  the 
killing  would  have  been  the  Federal  side.  But  just  outside  the 
teeth  of  the  trap  a  tremulous  watcher  let  his  gun  go  off.  It 
signalled  a  volley  of  course,  but  a  volley  of  miscalculation. 
No  charge  followed  it.  Loading  where  they  stood,  and  forget- 
ting to  all  appearances  every  reliance  upon  the  revolver,  Todd 
got  time  to  break  out  from  his  bad  position.  The  carbine  he 
carried  in  his  hand  was  shot  in  two,  and  Martin  Shepherd,  a 
lion  in  every  combat,  mortally  wounded.  As  he  reeled  he  fired 
both  barrels  of  his  shot-gun,  killing  a  Federal  at  each  discharge, 
and  before  he  fell  Cole  Younger  caught  him  in  his  arms  and 
brought  him  out.  Others  were  wounded,  though  not  mortally. 
Todd,  coolest  in  danger,  like  Massena,  and  deadliest,  dashed 
through  the  ambushment  and  on  towards  the  Pink  Hill  bridge 
across  the  Sni,  the  seventy-five  Federals  following  fast,  soon  to 
be  reinforced  by  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  more.  Skirmish- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER          83 

ing  ensued  heavily.  The  wagons,  before  encountering  the 
enemy  at  the  ambuscade,  had  been  parked  in  an  out  of  the  way 
place  far  from  a  main  road,  and  only  the  extra  horses  now  had 
to  be  looked  to.  The  bridge  was  in  sight,  and  beyond  it  was 
Quantrell  and  reinforcements.  The  trot  quickened  into  a 
gallop  and  Todd  had  struck  the  west  end  of  it,  well  ahead  of 
the  pursuers  in  the  rear,  when  from  the  eastern  approach  a 
fierce  fire  beat  into  his  very  face  and  a  blue  mass  rushed  into 
the  road  and  halted.  Hemmed  in  as  he  was,  and  hampered 
with  horses,  he  rushed  at  the  squadrons  blocking  up  his  passage 
way  and  strove  to  cut  through.  The  fire  was  too  severe,  the 
odds  too  unreasonable.  Blunt  was  wounded,  Yager  was 
wounded,  Younger  had  two  horses  killed  under  him,  Von  was 
wounded,  Bledsoe  was  wounded  twice,  Todd  had  his  hat  shot 
off  and  four  holes  through  Ms  coat,  and  those  covering  his  rear 
could  hold  it  only  a  moment  or  two  longer.  At  the  bridge  the 
Sni  made  a  bend,  the  bulge  of  the  stream  pushing  towards  the 
east ;  when  he  got  to  the  western  approach  he  was  in  the  com- 
plete envelopment  of  a  cul  de  sac.  Neither  able  to  move 
backwards  nor  forwards ;  on  the  right  hand  the  Sni,  and  on  the 
left  hand  the  Sni;  two  hundred  Federals  in  his  rear  and  an 
unknown  number  in  his  front. — this  was  Todd's  predicament. 
The  river  was  there,  it  is  true,  but  the  banks  on  the  west  were 
ten  feet  high  and  perpendicular.  He  would  take  to  the  water 
below  the  bridge,  and  be  the  first  also  to  take  the  leap.  Twice 
his  horse  refused  him,  but  lifting  him  the  third  time  by  a  spur 
stroke,  and  giving  him  the  rein  and  a  cheering  cry,  he  sprang 
sheer  over  the  steep  into  the  river,  halting  there  under  fire  to 
guide,  as  it  were,  and  encourage  his  men.  All  got  over  in 
safety,  carrying  with  them  the  bulk  of  the  extra  horses,  and  at 
daylight  the  next  morning  he  was  in  the  camp  of  Quantrell, 
near  Pallett's  on  the  Sni. 

While  encamped  here,  and  waiting  for  the  operations  of  the  va- 
rious detachments  sent  out  to  be  completed,  Quantrell  had  receiv- 
ed the  consignment  of  arms  and  ammunition  forwarded  to  Quan- 
trell by  Quantrell  from  St.  Joseph.  In  addition  to  an  unusually 
large  number  of  revolver  caps,  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight 
new  navy  revolvers — worth  every  one  of  them  its  weight  in  gold 
— made  glad  the  eyes  of  the  Guerrillas  and  light  their  hearts. 
They  would  try  them  also  in  a  forward  movement  the  next  day. 


84  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

Todd's  old  antagonists  were  in  Pink  Hill,  easy  of  access,  and 
thither  Quantrell  marched.  Choosing  a  position  west  of  the 
place  that  was  a  natural  ambuscade,  he  made  ready  to  execute 
a  manoeuvre  never  before  attempted.  Behind  an  embankment 
that  was  a  perfect  shelter,  the  horses  were  hitched.  To  the 
right  and  left  of  the  road,  and  running  parallel  with  it  for  two 
hundred  yards  and  more,  were  ditches  for  draining  purposes, 
now  dry  and  deep  enough  to  shelter  the  men ;  in  these  fifty 
soldiers  could  fight  five  hundred.  Gregg  was  chosen  to  com- 
mand a  decoy  party  consisting  of  ten  men,  and  sent  forward  at 
once  to  fight  the  Federals  awhile,  retreat  slowly,  fight  again, 
then  retreat,  then  turn  once  more  about,  and  finally — with 
nothing  of  trepidation  and  with  scarcely  a  show  of  speed,  lead 
them  into  the  lion's  den.  The  name  of  Gregg  was  even  then 
beginning  to  make  the  Jayhawkers  tremble.  He  had  the  nerve 
of  an  inflexible  will  in  council,  and  on  the  battle-field  the  impet- 
uosity of  youth.  Under  all  circumstances  his  example  was  one 
of  intrepidity.  He  seemed  to  recognize  no  other  aspiration 
than  the  triumph  of  his  cause.  He  devoted  himself  to  Quan- 
trell— like  Todd,  Cole  Younger,  Poole,  Blunt,  the  Shepherds, 
the  Littles,  and  many  others — by  a  double  worship,  to  his 
principles  as  a  Guerrilla,  to  his  person  as  a  friend.  Honest, 
modest,  silent — without  other  ambition  than  that  of  serving  his 
country  as  became  a  hero,  he  did  superbly  the  hardest  thing  to 
do  on  earth — his  whole  duty. 

Keeping  well  under  cover  until  within  one  hundred  yards  of 
Pink  Hill,  Gregg  broke  out  of  the  timber  at  a  run  and  dashed 
furiously  into  the  town.  For  the  first  few  moments  all  was  dire 
confusion,  no  one  heeding  orders,  and  none  making  head 
against  the  Guerrillas  until  they  had  shot  down  fifteen  in  the 
streets,  wounded  eleven,  and  crippled,  cut  loose,  and  stampeded 
not  less  than  sixty  horses.  Afterwards  from  dwellings,  garden 
fences,  store-houses,  corn  cribs,  from  behind  chimneys  and  out 
of  the  tops  of  hay  stacks  and  wheat  stacks  two  hundred 
Federals  took  shelter  and  drove  Gregg  out.  He  retreated  a 
short  distance  and  turned  about.  They  would  not  follow  him. 
Try  how  he  would,  not  a  soldier  left  his  place  of  security.  He 
tempted  them  next  with  bravado.  Sending  Cole  Younger, 
James  Vaughn,  and  James  Tucker  back  to  ride  about  and 
around  Pink  Hill,  he  calmly  waited  himself  just  beyond  gun- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  85 

shot  until  they  should  get  ready  to  follow.  These  three 
skirmished  with  everything  they  saw  for  an  hour.  Now  on  one 
side  of  Pink  Hill  and  now  on  another,  no  one  would  come  out 
to  try  a  grapple  with  them.  At  length,  and  as  if  to  vary  the 
monotony  of  so  much  recklessness  on  the  one  side  and  so  much 
cowardice  on  the  other,  a  splendid  horse  broke  away  from  the 
town  and  ran  some  distance  in  the  direction  of  the  three  Guer- 
rillas. Vaughn  rode  forward  to  capture  him.  If  he  dashed  at 
the  Federal  horse  he  knew  he  should  scare  him  and  lose  him, 
but  if  he  went  gently  the  chances  were  good  for  success.  Fifty 
concealed  soldiers  fired  at  him  incessantly  as  he  rode  slowly  up 
to  the  horse  and  as  slowly  back  again.  Twice  he  took  off  his 
hal  and  waved  it  towards  the  nearest  marksmen  who  shot  the 
closest  to  him,  and  twice  he  dismounted  within  easy  range  to 
adjust  his  saddle.  Fortune  deserted  him  at  last,  however,  and 
when  he  had  the  least  reason  to  expect  it.  Full  five  hundred 
yards  from  the  nearest  house,  he  was  struck  in  the  right  breast 
by  a  heavy  ball,  which  passed  through  the  lung  and  out  at  the 
back,  near  the  spine.  In  losing  him,  Quantreli  lost  a  soldier 
conspicuous  for  enterprise,  and  remarkable  for  the  coolness  of 
an  intrepidity  which  was  unconscious  of  its  own  excess. 

Unwilling  to  follow  Gregg,  and  afraid  to  move  out  of  Pink 
Hill,  the  commander  of  the  two  hundred  Federals  cooped  up 
there  sent  a  Union  citizen  who  knew  the  country  well  post-haste 
to  Independence  for  reinforcements,  but  Quantreli  moved 
that  night  into  Johnson  county,  and  camped  for  several  days  on 
Walnut  creek.  They  were  after  him,  however.  Commanded 
by  a  dashing  officer,  one  hundred  Federal  calvary  came  up  from 
Clinton,  in  Henry  county,  and  struck  Quantreli  afoot  at  the 
house  of  William  Asbury.  In  his  front  was  an  opi*n  prairie, 
arid  in  his  rear  a  large  orchard  in  which  his  noises  were  hitched. 
The  Federals  came  right  onward  at  a  gallop,  fron'ed  into 
line  swiftly,  and  dashed  down  to  within  thirty  yards  of  the 
house  only  to  meet  a  withering  volley  and  to  fail  back  in  mucii 
confusion,  leaving  behind  them  all  their  dead  and  wounded. 
Rallying  beyond  range,  the  gallant  leader  of  tlie  Fed  ra's 
formed  another  line,  placed  himself  again  at  its  head,  and  strove 
to  urge  it  forward.  Instead  of  men  he  talked  to  stocks  or  stones. 
Some  make-believes  of  charges  fooled  him  tw  ce  or  thrice,  when 
drawing  off  in  sheer  disgust,  he  took  up  a  position  of  masterly 


86  NOTED  GUEEEILLAS,  OE 

observation  something  over  a  mile  away  upon  the  prairie. 
Gregg,  with  three  men — Cole  Younger,  Henry  Ogden,  and 
George  Maddox — followed  him  and  fought  him  at  every  step, 
driving  in  his  picquets  twice,  and  keeping  his  cowardly  detach- 
ment in  a  constant  state  of  uproar. 

While  preparing  to  mount  and  attack  in  return,  Dave  Poole 
and  John  Brinker  hurried  up  with  the  unpleasant  information 
that  two  hundred  Federals,  attracted  by  the  firing,  were  coming 
up  rapidly  from  the  direction  of  Harrisonville.  Quantrell's 
force  numbered  exactly  sixty-three,  capable  of  whipp:ng  easily 
the  one  hundred  within  striking  distance,  but  inadequate  to  the 
other  tasK.  The  Federal  wounded,  numbering  eighteen,  he  had 
looked  after  carefully.  Not  belonging  to  any  of  the  commands 
waging  upon  him  a  war  of  extermination,  he  had  no  desire  to 
make  them  responsible  for  the  cruelties  of  other  organizations. 
Rapid  always,  whether  in  retreat  or  advance,  Quantrell  traveled 
two  miles  in  a  southeast  direction  through  some  heavy  timber, 
thence  across  a  prairie  to  Big  Creek,  over  Big  Creek  to  Devil's 
Eidge,  and  from  Devil's  Ridge  northeast  towards  Pleasant  Hill. 
By  this  time  seven  hundred  Federals  were  on  his  track,  well 
mounted  and  full  of  fight.  It  rained  all  day  the  first  day  out 
from  Asbury's,  the  roads  became  muddy,  and  the  streams  began 
to  rise.  During  most  of  the  second  night  Quantrell  scattered 
his  trail  at  suitable  places,  and  used  whatever  of  stratagem  was 
best  to  retard  pursuit.  At  daylight  Pleasant  Hill  was  three 
miles  to  the  right,  and  Big  Creek  within  sight  on  the  left.  The 
sky  had  cleared  up,  and  Quantrell  stopped  for  breakfast  six 
miles  west  of  the  town.  All  night  long  also  had  the  Federals 
marched,  reaching  Pleasant  Hill  an  hour  later  than  Quantrell 
and  breakfasting  there.  Peabody  led  their  advance  with  three 
hundred  cavalry,  four  hundred  more  marching  on  in  supporting 
distance  behind  him.  He  had  some  old  scores  to  settle  and 
some  ugly  old  wounds  to  get  ointment  for. 

Quantrell  had  halted  in  Swearingen's  barn,  and  the  Guerrillas 
were  drying  their  saddle-blankets.  One  picquet,  Hicks  George 
— an  iron  man,  who  could  sleep  in  the  saddle,  and  eat  as  he 
ran,  who  faced  every  suspicious  thing  until  he  fathomed  it,  and 
explored  every  mysterious  thins:  until  he  mastered  it: — watched 
the  rear  against  attack.  Peabody  received  George's  fire— for 
George  would  have  fired  at  angel  or  devil  in  the  line  of  his 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  £  ORDER          87 

duty — and  drove  him  towards  Quantrell  at  a  full  run.  Every 
preparation  possible  under  the  circumstances  had  been  made, 
and  if  the  reception  was  not  as  warm  as  expected,  the  Federals 
could  attribute  much  of  it  to  the  long  night  march  and  the 
rainy  weather.  The  horses  were  hitched  in  the  rear  of  the  barn 
to  protect  them  as  far  as  possible,  and  the  Guerrillas  lined  and 
lay  along  the  fence  in  front. 

Quantrell  stood  by  the  open  gate  calmly,  with  his  hand  upon 
the  latch ;  when  George  entered  in  he  would  close  it  and  fasten 
it.  The  crest  of  the  wave  of  Peabody's  onset  had  reared  itself 
up  to  within  thirty  feet  of  the  fence  when  the  Guerrillas 
delivered  a  crushing  volley,  and  sixteen  Federals,  borne  on  by 
the  impetus  of  the  rush,  crashed  against  the  barricade  and  fell 
there,  some  wounded  and- some  dead.  Others  fell  as  the  ebb 
came,  and  more  dropped  out  here  and  there  before  the  disorgan- 
ized mass  got  back  again  safely  from  the  deadly  revolver  range. 
After  them  hot  dashed  Quantrell  himself,  George  Maddox,  Jar- 
rette,  Cole  Younger,  George  Morrow,  Gregg,  Blunt,  Poole  and 
Haller,  following  them  fast  to  the  timber  and  gathering  upon 
their  return  all  the  arms  and  the  ammunition  of  the  killed  and 
wounded.  At  the  timber  Peabody  rearranged  his  lines, 
dismounted  his  men,  and  came  forward  again  at  a  double- 
quick  and  yelling.  Do  what  he  would,  the  charge  spent  itself 
before  it  could  be  called  a  charge.  Never  nearer  than  one 
hundred  yards  of  the  fence,  he  skirmished  at  long  range  for 
nearly  an  hour  and  finally  took  up  a  position  one  mile  south  of 
the  barn,  awaiting  reinforcements.  Quantrell  sent  out  Cole 
Younger,  Poole,  John  Brinker  and  William  Haller,  to  ulay  up 
close  to  Peabody,"  as  he  expressed  it,  and  keep  him  and  his 
movements  steadily  in  view.  The  four  dare-devils  multiplied 
themselves.  They  attacked  the  pickets,  rode  around  the  whole 
camp  in  bravado,  firing  upon  it  from  every  side,  and  finally 
agreed  to  send  a  flag  of  truce  in  to  Peabody  with  this  manner 
of  a  challenge : 

"We,  whose  names  are  hereunto  annexed,  respectfully  ask 
of  Colonel  Peabody  the  privilege  of  fighting  eight  of  his  best 
men,  hand  to  hand,  and  that  he  himself  make  the  selection,  and 
send  them  out  to  us  immediately."  This  was  signed:  Coleman 
Younger,  William  Haller,  David  Poole  and  John  Brinker. 

Younger  bore  it.     Tieing  a  white  handkerchief  to  a  stick  he 


88  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

rode  boldly  up  to  the  nearest  picket  and  asked  for  a  parley. 
Six  started  toward  him,  and  he  bade  four  go  back.  The  message 
was  carried  to  Peabody,  but  he  laughed  at  it  and  scanned  the 
prairie  in  every  direction  for  the  "  coming  reinforcements. 
Meanwhile  Quantrell  was  retreating.  His  four  men  cavorting 
about  Peabody  were  to  amuse  him  as  long  as  possible  and  then 
get  away  as  best  they  could.  Such  risks  are  often  taken  in 
war ;  to  save  one  thousand  men  sometimes  one  hundred  are 
sacrificed.  Death  equally  with  exactness  has  its  mathematics. 

The  reinforcements  came  up  rapidly.  One  hundred  joined 
Peabody  on  the  prairie,  and  two  hundred  masked  themselves  by 
some  timber  on  the  north  and  advanced  parallel  with  QuantrelFs 
line  of  retreat — a  flank  movement  intended  to  be  final.  Haller 
hurried  off  to  Quautrell  to  report,  and  Peabody,  vigorous  and 
alert  now,  threw  out  after  the  three  remaining  Guerrillas  a 
cloud  of  cavalry  skirmishers.  The  race  was  one  for  life.  Each 
started  for  the  barn  on  a  keen  run.  It  was  on  the  eve  of 
harvest,  and  the  wheat,  breast  high  to  the  horse,  flew  away 
from  before  the  feet  of  the  racers  as  though  the  wind  was 
driving  through  it  an  incarnate  scythe  blade.  As  Pool  struck 
the  eastern  edge  of  this  wheat,  a  very  large  jack,  belonging  to 
Swearingen,  joined  in  the  pursuit,  braying  loudly  at  every  jump, 
and  leading  the  Federals  by  a  length.  Comedy  and  tragedy 
were  in  the  same  field  together.  Carbines  rang  out,  revolvers 
cracked,  the  jack  brayed,  the  Federals  roared  with  merriment, 
and  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  ran,  Poole  heard  the 
laughter  and  saw  the  jack,  and  imagined  the  devil  to  be  after 
him  leading  a  lot  of  crazy  people. 

The  barn  was  almost  gained,  and  Brinker  and  Younger  were 
through  the  gate,  into  the  lot,  and  away  on  the  track  of  Quan- 
trell, when  the  two  hundred  flanking  Federals  burst  from  their 
cover  on  the  north  and  cut  Poole  squarely  off  from  the  gap  he 
had  to  go  through  to  get  out  of  the  barn  lot.  It  was  a  rain  of 
bullets  now.  His  gun  was  shot  out  of  his  hand.  His  horse 
was  wounded  and  blown ;  he  was  in  a  trap ;  and  something  like 
a  roar  went  up  of  "surrender!"  "surrender!"  "surrender!" 
But  he  did  not.  surrender.  Turning  his  horse  to  the  west  where 
it  seemed  to  him  there  was  a  panel  lower  than  the  rest,  he 
drove  on  it,  or  through  it,  or  over  it,  with  a  crashing  and  a 
splintering  that  jarred  the  whole  fence  and  dragged  him  well 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          89 

nigh  from  his  saddle.  Younger  and  Brinker  were  not  yet  out 
of  sight  when  he  was  up  with  them  again,  the  whole  three  dash- 
ing on  together  upon  QuantrelPs  trail,  the  pursuing  Federals 
close  behind. 

In  a  hollow  close  to  Fred.  Farmer's  house  Quantrell  formed 
his  sixty-three  men  on  foot  to  fight  seven  hundred.  Peabody 
struck  him  first  and  got  his  fire  at  ten  steps  before  he  knew  it. 
Fifteen  saddles  were  emptied  here — James  Morris  and  young 
More,  son-in-law  of  DavH  Yeager,  performing  several  acts  of 
conspicuous  bravery.  In  each  hand  a  revolver,  and  advancing 
continually,  they  fired  so  rapidly  and  so  accurately  that  it  might 
well  have  been  taken  for  a  company.  Peabody,  sick  of  fighting 
Quuntrell  on  horseback,  dismounted  beyond  range  and  divided 
his  command — sending  one  part  of  it  to  the  west  and  keeping 
the  other  at  the  south.  The  flanking  detachment,  closing  up 
from  the  north,  also  divided,  keeping  one  portion  there  and 
sending  the  other  to  close  up  the  gap  on  the  east.  Thus  was 
the  environment  complete ;  sixty-three  men  were  surrounded 
by  seven  himdered.  A  series  of  desperate  combats  followed  in 
the  thick  brush ;  charging  those  on  the  south  and  killing  and 
wounding  twenty-two,  those  on  the  north  were  then  looked 
to,  and  then  those  on  the  east  and  the  west.  One  charge 
followed  another,  the  combats  culminating  at  every  point  over 
desperate  rallies  for  the  horses.  This  hollow  heW  by  Quantrell 
vomitted  fire  and  smoke  as  the  mouth  of  a  volcano.  In  the 
gloom  Titans  struggled.  To  the  long  roll  of  musketry — full, 
sonorous,  resonant — there  succeeded  the  shriller  and  sharper 
notes  of  the  revolver  vollies.  The  two  lines  marked  the  strife 
thus :  the  Federals  wi^.h  the  more  melodious  music,  the  Guerril- 
las with  the  more  discordant. 

Quantrell  was  getting  anxious.  Some  of  his  horses  had  been 
killed,  and  many  of  his  best  men  were  wounded.  Gregg,  Coger, 
Poole,  Cole  Younger,  Moore,  Maddox,  Morris,  Brinker,  Haller, 
and  a  dozen  others  shot,  more  or  less  severely,  fought  on,  yet 
slowly.  Attrition  alone  would  make  this  conflict  only  one  of 
time  ;  to  fight  further,  was  to  waste  precious  blood  unneces- 
sarily. 

To  the  left-front  of  the  hollow— the  south-front — there  lay 
wounded  probably  a  dozen  Federals,  and  some  of  them  had 
dragged  their  hurt  bodies  below  its  crest  for  such  shelter  as  it 


90  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

afforded  from  the  balls,  now  coming  from  every  direction.  As 
Quantrell  passed  hurriedly  through  them,  from  the  south,  to  re- 
pel a  furious  attack  upon  the  north — conspicuous  alike  by  his 
presence  and  the  splendid  coolness  of  his  bearing — a  Federal 
soldier  raised  himself  up  on  his  knees  and  fired  at  him,  point 
blank.  The  bullet,  intended  for  the  breast,  struck  Quantrell  in 
the  right  leg,  below  the  knee,  and  cut  clean  through,  narrowly 
missing  the  bone.  Quantrell  fell,  but  leaped  so  quickly  to  his 
feet,  that  his  men  imagined  he  had  only  stumbled.  Gregg's 
quick  eyes,  however,  fathomed  the  movement  at  a  glance, 
and  in  an  instant  he  had  a  pistol  at  the  assassin's  ear.  uPray !" 
he  said.  The  wounded  Federal  only  shut  his  eyes  and  bowed 
his  head  ;  he  had  played  a  desperate  game  and  lost — that  game; 
that  men  sometimes  play  with  death  when  they  know  death  must 
win.  Gregg  blew  his  brains  out. 

"  Say  nothing  of  my  wound,"  Quantrell  said  to  Gregg,  so  low 
that  none  heard  him,  "and  tell  the  men  to  mount  rapidly  and 
at  once." 

Yelling,  and  charging  upon  the  hollow  from  all  sides,  the 
jubilant  enemy  now  had  everything  their  own  way.  To  get  out 
was  touch  and  go ;  to  stay  there  was  absolute  death.  At  the 
mounting  time,  Jarrette  found  his  horse  dead,  and  so  did  Greggr 
George  Shepherd,  Toler,  Tucker,  Henry  Ogden,  Dick  Maddoxr 
James  Morris,  -and  Dick  Burnes.  These  men  had  been  doing 
splendid  work  on  the  east,  and  had  had  no  time  to  look  to  their 
horses.  They  now  broke  through  this  line  again  on  foot,  and 
fougiit  slowly  north,  gaining  a  little  at  every  step,  and  getting 
little  by  little  all  their  enemies  behind  them.  To  the  com  oat  of 
the  squad,  the  individual  combat  succeeded.  Quantrell  and 
John  Coger  went  out  together,  each  losing  his  horse  a  mile 
from  the  battle-field.  Will  Haller  and  Gregg  led  a  furious 
charge  to  the  north,  broke  through  Peabody's  lines  in  that  di- 
rection, dashed  back  by  the  barn  of  the  morning's  conflict,  on 
past  Swearingen's  house,  and  then  east  again.  As  they  struck 
the  line  under  a  steady  fire,  Kit  Chiles,  who  was  riding  side  by 
side  with  Cole  Younger,  felt  his  horse  sink  beneath  him.  "  I'm 
gone,"  he  said  to  Younger."  "No;  courage  Kit,"  and  Cole 
dismounted  there,  helped  him  out  from  under  his  dead  horse,  and 
up  behind  him  on  his  own.  Thus  they  rode  away,  and  to  his  dying 
hour  Kit  Chiles  bore  testimony  with  gratitude,  that  he  owed  his 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER          91 

life  to  his  intrepid  comrade.  This  standing  side  by  side  with  one 
another  was  Guerrilla  tactics:  t!iey  never  abandoned  their 
wounded  if  one  could  ride  or  walk,  or  even  crawl.  Sometime* 
three  on  one  horse  have  been  carried  out  from  some  disastrous 
melee  ;  not  unfrequently  back  to  back  two  have  stood — one  un- 
hurt the  other  hurt  too  grievously  to  escape — and  died  to- 
gether. Quantrell  taught  such  comradeship;  in  his  bivouacs 
and  about  his  camp-fires  he  pictured  to  them  what  a  blessed 
thing  was  devotion.  Frank  Ojjd en  carried  out  Jarrette,  Blunt 
carried  out  Hart,  Poole  carried  out  Haller.  Those  who  rode  the 
strongest  horses  picked  up  the  heaviest  among  the  dismounted 
men,  and  so  on  down  this  way  in  gradation,  until  not  even  so 
much  as  a  wounded  horse,  not  too  badly  hurt  to  travel,  was  left 
to  the  seven  hundred  Federals,  still  scouting  through  the  brushy 
firing  into  the  hollow,  and  wondering  what  had  become  of  the 
encompassed  Guerrillas. 

Safely  through  the  toils,  and  used  up  quite  seriously  in  men 
and  horses,  Haller  rode  rapidly  for  the  Harrisonville  and  Inde- 
pendence road,  and  reached  it,  after  heavy  skirmishing,  at 
James  Wilson's.  Th<  nee  marching  north  to  Dupre's,  and  con- 
centrating finally  at  Major  J.  F.  Stom;street's,  the  command  was 
disbanded  until  the  following  night,  with  the  rendezvous  agreed 
upon — the  house  of  Fleming  Harris.  Quantrell  himself  was- 
one  of  the  first  to  arrive,  mounted  on  an  old  blind  mare,  saddle- 
less  and  bridleless,  John  Coger  leading  her  into  camp  with  a 
rope.  Within  a  mile  from  the  place  of  the  fight,  twenty  cavalry- 
men overtook  them,  killed  their  horses,  wounded  Coger  and  drove 
each  afoot  into  the  timber,  Quantrell  walking  with  great  pain. 
After  night,  Coger  stumbled  upon  a  blind  mare  by  accident, 
and  as  it  was  the  best  that  could  be  done,  Quantrell  rode  her 
bare-back,  while  he  walked  and  led  her — the  blind  emphatically 
leading  the  blind — for  Coger  had  an  old  wound  not  entirely 
healed,  and  a  new  one,  that  though  comparatively  slight,  gave 
him  some  trouble. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

INDEPENDENCE. 

QUANTRELL  recovered  slowly.  His  wound  was  more  serious 
than  he  at  first  admitted,  and  to  neglect  there  had  surceeded 
erysipelas.  Forced  to  change  his  positions  in  the  brush  often, 
and  cut  off  frequently  from  needful  medical  attention,  several 
weeks  elapsed  before  his  men  could  be  got  together  again.  Not 
idle,  however,  in  the  interval  nor  indifferent  to  events,  they  had 
worked  faithfully  for  Col.  Upton  Hays,  who  was  recruiting  a 
regiment  for  the  Confederate  service. 

Colonel  Buell,  of  soldierly  character,  honor  and  courage,  held 
Independence  with  six  hundred  men.  The  citizens  respected 
him  because  he  was  just ;  the  Guerrillas  because  he  was  merciful ; 
his  soldiers  because  he  was  firm.  Order  and  stability  are  the 
two  necessities  of  a  garrison.  Buell  was  the  same  one  day  as 
another.  A  patriot  without  being  a  proscriptionist ;  a  stern 
fighter  who  was  not  a  hangman  ;  a  rigid  executive  officer  without 
being  an  executioner — he  sometimes  was  twice  successful:  once 
by  his  manhood  and  once  through  his  magnanimity. 

In  pursuance  of  superior  orders  issued  through  his  head- 
quarters, every  male  citizen  of  Jackson  county  between  the  ages 
of  eighteen  and  forty-five  was  required  to  take  up  arms  and  fight 
against  the  South.  They  did  take  up  arms,  but  they  did  not 
fitrht  against  the  South.  Providence  sent  to  their  especial 
deliverance  a  giant  by  the  name  of  UPTON  B.  HAYS — a  military- 
Moses  indeed,  who,  raised  up  for  a  certain  glorious  work,  died 
before  reaching  the  promised  land.  Death  smote  him  in  the 
harness,  and  he  fell  where  it  was  an  honor  to  die. 

Hays  was  of  a  family  famous  for  great  physical  vigor  and 
courage.  A  plains'  man  before  he  was  a  soldier,  immensity 
had  taught  him  self-reliance,  and  isolation  that  searching  coin- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          9$ 

munion  which  decides  and  hardens  character.  Treachery  was 
abhorrent  to  him,  and  baseness  of  heart  aroused  his  indignation. 
Of  enormous  energy,  commanding  presence,  sonorous  voice, 
splendid  horsemanship,  he  won  men  to  him  by  the  magnetism 
of  a  magnificent  manhood,  and  held  them  there  through  the 
gentler  gifts  of  appreciation  and  generosity.  He  understood 
the  war,  for  he  had  summed  it  up  early.  He  disputed  nothing ; 
he  sang  no  good  man's  song  by  the  cradle  of  a  young  Con- 
federacy who  had  suspended  the  habeas  corpus  and  was  muttering 
of  conscription ;  he  only  stipulated  that  every  blow  should  be 
decisive.  He  believed  that  the  people  possessed  no  other  con- 
viction than  that  of  their  emotion  ;  that  ID  revolution  temerity  was 
prudence ;  and  that  on  desperate  occasions  there  was  no  hope 
save  in  that  despairing  patriotism  which  risked  everything  with 
the  idea  of  saving  it. 

Indefatigable  in  recruiting  as  in  other  things,  Colonel  Hays 
soon  had  organized  for  active  service  the  materials  of  as  fine  a 
regiment  as  ever  followed  a  competent  leader  to  war.  It  had 
need  to  be  baptized ;  through  baptism — that  sort  of  baptism 
which  picks  out  the  bravest  pud  the  best  and  puts  them  in  the 
fore  front  of  the  regiment  to  die — came  the  touching  of  elbow 
to  elbow  in  battle,  the  winnowing  that  forever  estopped  a  rout; 
tenacity,  endurance,  fatalism — that  something  of  insanity  which' 
made  them  charge  like  Murat  and  die  like  Leonidas. 

Well  up  from  his  ugly  wound,  and  anxious  for  battle  air  and 
exercise,  Quantrell  had  sped  the  mustering  cry  from  Guerrilla  to 
Guerrilla  until  at  the  Flannery  rendezvous  not  six  of  his  trusty 
veterans  were  absent.  Hays  came  also  and  talked  of  taking 
Independence.  Between  the  two  the  plan  was  arranged,  and 
ten  days  given  to  gather  the  forces  and  mould  the  bullets.  Re- 
cruiting officers  from  the  South  were  entering  Missouri  in 
every  direction — Col.  Gideon  W.  Thompson,  Col.  John  T. 
Coffee,  Col.  Vard  Cockrell,  Capt.  Jo.  O.  Shelby,  Col.  John  T. 
Hughes,  Col.  S.  D.  Jackman—  and  it  was  necessary  to  strike  a 
blow.  The  more  resounding  it  was  made  the  better.  After  a 
serious  hurt,  or  when  a  bold  dash  left  behind  it  a  trail  of  clean 
fighting  and  killing,  the  Federals  always  concentrated.  The 
little  posts  ran  into  the  big  ones.  Scouting  parties  staid  at 
home  for  several  days ;  on  the  arms  of  the  heavier  headquarter 
people  there  was  crape.  Fasting  and  pra}rer,  of  course,  never 


S4  NOTED  GUEEBILLAS,  OE 

came  by  way  of  propitiation,  but  cattle-stealing  was  less  luxu- 
riantly indulged  in,  and  bedeviling  citizens  not  so  much  of  a 
frolic.  But  then  the  wind  that  ruffled  so  rudely  the  blue  uni- 
forms blew  benedictions  to  the  recruiting  folk.  Borrowing 
three  of  Quantrell's  old  men— Cole  Younger,  Dick  Yager  and 
Boon  Muir — and  taking  two  of  his  own — William  Young  and 
Virgil  Miller — Col.  Hays  concluded  to  make  a  tour  of  his  can- 
tonments.  Buell's  oider  had  put  into  the  brush  well  nigh  the 
entire  arms-bearing  population'  of  Jackson  county.  On  all  the 
streams  there  were  camps.  Men  drilled  on  the  prairie  edges 
nearest  to  the  timber,  and  where  the  undergrowth  was  thickest 
there  generally  were  silent  ambuscades.  The  woods  were  in- 
habited. Women  sewed  in  the  shade  of  the  trees ;  children 
sported  among  the  leaves.  Uniformed  as  Federal  soldiers,  Col. 
Hays  and  his  little  party  rode  into  Westport  where  there  was  a 
garrison  fifty  strong.  Simulating  a  loyalty  totally  unfelt,  the 
-citizens  had  just  given  to  the  breeze  a  magnificent  flag  worth  a 
hundred  dollars.  It  flew  high  and  free  as  he  rode  in  ;  as  he 
rode  out  it  was  trampled  and  torn.  The  fifty  soldiers  garrison- 
ing Westport  were  part  of  Jennison's  regiment,  especially  ob- 
noxious to  the  citizens,  and  given  up,  more  or  less,  to  predatory 
excursions  in  the  country  round  about.  It  was  the  same  old 
story  of  splendid  personal  recklessness  and  prowess.  As  Hays 
trotted  leisurely  in  at  the  head  of  his  squad,  an  orderly  at  a  cor- 
ner saluted  him,  supposing  him  to  be  a  Federal  officer;  the  salute 
was  returned.  As  Dick  Yager  followed  on  behind,  the  orderly, 
looking  upon  him  only  as  a  private,  did  not  salute.  "Why 
do  you  refuse?"  asked  Dick.  "You  are  a  fool,"  said  the 
•orderly.  "But  I  am  a  fine  shot,"  replied  Yager,  and  he  was,  for 
he  put  a  dragoon  pistol  ball  fair  through  the  man's  forehead. 
The  Jayhawkers  swarmed.  Seizing  upon  houses,  fifty  men 
under  cover  fought,  five.  Hays  separated  his  soldiers  and  kept 
up  an  incessant  fusillade.  A  German  living  in  the  place  had 
boasted  a  few  days  before  of  a  desire  to  lead  a  company  of  ex- 
termination against  rebel  women  and  children ;  it  was  an  effec- 
tive way  to  end  the  war,  he  said.  Younger  treed  the  Dahomey 
man  in  a  house,  which  was  barricaded,  and  swept  the  street  in 
front  of  it,  while  Yager  was  battering  down  the  door  to  get  in. 
The  doomed  man  fought  like  a  wolf,  but  they  killed  him  in  his 
xien  and  flung  his  body  out  of  a  window.  Then  they  ran  fight- 


COLEMAN  YOUNGER. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  95 

ing  and  separated.  Hays  cut  the  flag  ropes  and  dragged  the 
loyal  banner  after  him  as  he  gallopped  south,  followed  by  Muir, 
Young  and  Miller;  Younger  and  Yager  took  the  Kansas  City 
pike,  ran  north  a  mile  and  into  one  hundred  cavalry  coming  up 
to  understand  the  battle.  Jayhawkers  front  and  rear,  and  a 
blind  lane  running  square  to  the  right  like  a  cul  de  sac.  They 
turned  into  it ;  at  the  far  end  and  across  it  a  heavy  fence  had 
just  been  built.  Their  pursuers  yelled  once  in  exultation — they 
knew  the  barrier  at  the  finish — arid  poured  into  the  lane's  mouth 
.a  flood  of  steeds  and  steel.  But  the  heavy  new  rails  were  as 
pasteboard.  Both  horses — held  hard  together  and  massed,  as 
it  were,  for  the  shock — launched  themselves  forward  like  a  bolt 
from  a  catapulet,  and  Younger  and  Yager  stretched  away  and 
beyond  in  a  free,  full  gallop. 

The  capture  of  Independence  having  been  agreed  upon,  Hays 
asked  of  Quantrell  some  accurate  information  touching  the 
strongest  and  best  fortified  points  about  the  town.  It  was 
three  days  to  the  attack ;  the  day  before  it  was  begun  the  infor- 
mation should  be  forthcoming.  "Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Cole 
Younger,  when  the  promise  made  to  Hays  had  been  repeated  by 
Quantrell,  "and  when  you  report,  you  can  report  the  facts.  A 
soldier  wants  nothing  else.'*  The  two  men  then  separated.  It 
was  the  7th  day  of  August,  1862. 

On  the  8th,  about  10  o'clock  in  the  morning,  an  old  woman 
with  gray  hair  and  wearing  spectacles,  rode  up  to  the  public 
square  from  the  south.  Independence  was  alive  with  soldiers ; 
several  market  wagons  were  about  the  streets;  the  trade  in 
vegetables  and  the  traffic  in  fruits  was  lively.  This  old  woman 
was  one  of  the  ancient  time.  A  faded  sun-bonnet,  long  and 
antique,  hid  almost  all  the  face.  The  riding-skirt,  which  once 
had  been  black,  was  now  bleached  ;  some  tatters  also  abounded, 
and  here  and  there  an  unsightly  patch.  On  the  horse  was  a 
blind  bridle,  the  left  rein  leather  and  the  right  one  rope. 
Neither  did  it  have  a  throat-latch.  The  saddle  was  a  man's 
saddle,  strong  in  the  stirrups  and  fit  for  any  service.  Women 
resorted  often  to  such  saddles  then ;  civil  war  had  made  many 
.a  hard  thing  easy.  On  the  old  lady's  arm  was  a  huge  market 
basket,  covered  by  a  white  cloth.  Under  the  cloth  were  beets, 
garden  beans  and  some  summer  apples.  As  she  passed  the  first 
picket  he  jibed  at  her:  "Good  morning,  grand-mother,"  he 


96  NOTED  GUEREILLAS,  Git 

said.  "Does  the  rebel  crop  need  any  rain  out  in  your  country  ?'r 
Where  the  reserve  post  was,  the  sergeant  on  duty  took  her 
horse  by  the  bridle,  and  peered  up  under  her  bonnet  and  into 
her  face.  "Were  you  younger  and  prettier  I  might  kiss  you," 
he  said.  "Were  I  younger  and  prettier,"  the  old  lady  replied, 
"I  might  box  your  ears  for  your  impudence."  "Oh!  ho!  you 
old  she-wolf,  what  claws  you  have  for  scratching!"  and  the 
rude  soldier  took  her  hand  with  an  oath  and  looked  at  it  sneer- 
ingly.  She  drew  it  away  with  such  a  quick  motion  and  started 
her  horse  so  rapidly  ahead  that  he  did  not  have  time  to  examine 
it.  In  a  moment  he  was  probably  ashamed  of  himself,  and 
so  let  her  ride  on  uninterrupted. 

Once  well  in  town  no  one  noticed  her  any  more.  At  the 
camp  she  was  seen  to  stop  and  give  three  soldiers  some  apples  out 
of  her  basket.  The  sentinel  in  front  of  BuelPs  headquarters 
was  overheard  to  say  to  a  comrade:  "There's  the  making  of 
four  good  bushwacking  horses  yet  in  that  old  woman's  horse  ;" 
and  two  hours  later,  as  she  rode  back  past  the  reserve  picket 
post,  the  sergeant,  still  on  duty,  did  not  halt  her  himself,  but 
caused  one  of  his  guards  to  do  it ;  he  was  anxious  to  know  what 
the  basket  contained,  for  in  many  ways  of  late  arms  and  ammu- 
nition had  been  smuggled  out  to  the  enemy. 

At  first  the  old  lady  did  not  heed  the  summons  to  halt — that 
short,  dry,  rasping,  ominous  call  which  in  all  tongues  appears 
to  have  the  same  sound ;  she  did,  however,  shift  the  basket 
from  the  right  arm  to  the  left  and  straighten  up  in  the  saddle 
just  the  least  appreciable  bit.  Another  cry,  and  the  old  lady 
looked  back  innocently  over  one  shoulder  and  snapped  out: 
"Do  you  mean  me?"  By  this  time  a  mounted  picket  had 
galloped  up  to  her,  ranged  along  side  and  seized  the  bridle  of 
the  horse.  It  was  thirty  steps  back  to  the  post,  maybe,  where 
the  sergeant  and  eight  men  were  down  from  their  horses  and 
the  horses  hitched.  To  the  out-post  it  was  a  hundred  yards, 
and  a  single  picket  stood  there.  The  old  lady  said  to  the 
soldier,  as  he  was  turning  her  horse  about  and  doing  it  roughly : 
"What  will  you  have?  I'm  but  a  poor  lone  woman  going  peace- 
ably to  my  home."  "Didn't  you  hear  the  sergeant  call  for 
you,  d — n  you?  Do  you  want  to  be  carried  back?"  the 
sentinel  made  answer. 

The  face   under  the   sun-bonnet  transformed  itself;  the  de- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          97 

mure  eyes  behind  their  glasses  grew  scintillant.  From  beneath 
the  riding-skirt  a  heavy  boot  emerged ;  the  old  horse  in  the  blind 
bridle  seemed  to  undergo  an  electric  impulse ;  there  was  the 
gliding  of  the  old  hand  which  the  sergeant  had  inspected  into  the 
basket,  and  a  cocked  pistol  came  out  and  was  fired  almost  before 
it  got  straight.  With  his  grasp  still  upon  the  reins  of  the  old 
woman's  bridle,  the  Federal  picket  fell  dead  under  the  feet  of 
•her  horse.  Then,  stupefied,  the  impotent  reserve  saw  a  weird 
figure  dash  away  down  the  road,  its  huge  bonnet  flapping  in  the 
wind,  and  the  trail  of  an  antique  riding-skirt,  split  to  the  should- 
ers, streaming  back  as  the  smoke  that  follows  a  furnace.  Cole- 
man  Younger  had  accomplished  his. mission.  Beneath  the  bon- 
net and  the  bombazine  was  the  Guerrilla,  and  beneath  the 
white  cloth  of  the  basket  and  its  apples  and  beets  and  beans, 
the  unerring  revolvers.  The  furthest  picket  heard  the  firing, 
saw  the  apparition,  bethought  himself  of  the  devil,  and  took  to 
the  brush.  That  night  Quantrell  made  his  report  to  Hays,  and 
the  next  night  the  mustering  took  place  at  Charles  Coward's. 

Col.  John  T.  Hughes  was  there,  a  Christian  who  had  turned 
soldier,  and  who  fought  as  he  prayed.  As  the  author  of  Doni- 
phan's  Expedition  to  Mexico,  he  had  planted  some  fruits  in  the 
fields  of  literature,  and  added  some  green  things  to  the  chaplets 
of  war.  The  soldiers  knew  him  as  a  hero.  Constitutionally 
brave  in  the  presence  of  men  whom  he  wished  to  recruit,  he 
added  to  intrepidity,  recklessness. 

At  daylight,  on  the  morning  of  the  llth,  Hays,  leading  three 
hundered  and  fifty  men,  saw  the  spires  of  Independence  loom 
up  indistinctly  through  the  morning  mist.  An  attack  was  in 
process  of  consummation ;  some  brave  men  were  about  to  die. 
Quantrell  led  the  advance;  the  Guerrillas,  jauntily  dressed, 
looked  lithe  and  lean  and  tawny.  Thanks  to  Younger,  the  leap 
had  not  to  be  made  in  the  dark ;  spectres  might  be  where  the 
spires  were,  but  not  the  unknown. 

Due  west  a  mile  from  the  town,  the  garrison  had  a  camp; 
about  it  were  stone  fences  and  broken  ways — bad  for  cavalry. 
Buell  had  his  headquarters  in  some  strong  houses,  southwest  of 
the  square;  guards  were  on  duty  about  the  town.  Cole  Youn- 
ger led  the  advance.  The  east  was  yet  dim  and  uncertain  ;  the 
grasses  and  the  earth  smelt  sweet;  it  was  a  blessing  to  live. 
The  first  picket — a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  square — fired  and 
7 


98  NOTED  GUERBILLAS,  OK 

ran,  the  pursuit  thundering  at  his  heels.  BuelFs  guard  at  his 
headquarters  fired  on  the  advance,  and  Kit  Chiles  fell.  "  First 
his  horse,  then  the  rider ;  poor  Kit,"  and  Quantrell  left  the  dead 
body  to  lie  until  the  battle  was  decided. 

The  camp  was  in  the  midst  of  the  long  roll  when  Quantrell 
struck  it;  Haller  shot  down  a  drummer  with  uplifted  stick. 
John  Jarrette  was  first  over  a  stone  fence,  running  along  in  front 
of  a  line  of  tents,  and  as  he  alighted,  he  killed  a  big  corporal  at 
his  tent  door.  The  Federals  rallied  manfully  and  fought  from 
the  fences  about  their  flanks,  and  from  the  broken  ways  and  the 
hollows.  Hays'  men  dismounted,  and  rushing  up  afoot,  sur- 
rounded the  encampment.  Rock  walls  now  replied  to  rock 
walls,  and  cover  answered  cover.  Buell,  pent  up  in  the  houses 
of  his  headquarters,  fought  stubbornly  there  with  such  forces  as 
were  left  to  him ;  the  guards  upon  the  streets  had  mostly  been 
killed.  When  the  people  of  the  place  awoke,  in  many  direc- 
tions dead  men  were  visible. 

When  once  fairly  joined,  the  issue  thereafter,  at  no  moment, 
was  in  doubt.  The  line  of  fire  contracted  about  the  doomed 
camp ;  the  enterprise  of  the  sappers  was  making  way  fast 
towards  the  doomed  commander.  Not  a  point  in  the  hazardous 
game  of  attack  had  been  lost.  As  Younger  had  traced  upon  a 
piece  of  paper,  so  were  found  the  route,  the  streets,  the  guards, 
the  camp,  the  defences,  the  strong  places  and  the  weak  places, 
the  Colonel's  commodious  dwelling  house,  and  the  sentinels' 
approachable  barracks. 

Hays  relieved  Quantrell  at  the  stone  walls,  and  Quantrell 
threw  himself  upon  Buell.  Buell  fought  from  every  door  and 
window  of  his  domicile.  A  hundred  men  in  houses  are  terrible. 
If  they  fight,  and  if  there  is  no  artillery,  they  are  murderous. 
Buell  fought,  and  there  was  no  artillery.  Hays  kept  creeping 
slower  and  slower ;  the  rifles  of  the  woodsmen  kept  telling  and 
telling.  Quantrell  could  not  advance — there  were  the  houses 
that  were  no  longer  houses — those  fortresses  of  the  besieged. 
Yager  was  for  smoking  them  out ;  Poole  suggested  a  keg  of 
gunpowder ;  George  Maddox,  fire ;  Haller,  fire ;  Jarrette,  fire — 
the  majority  said  fire — a  wagon  loaded  with  hay  was  brought 
and  volunteers  ran  with  it  to  the  rear  of  an  out-building  and 
fired  it  speedily.  The  out-house  caught ;  the  roof  of  the  fortress 
caught ;  the  red  heat  eat  its  way  downward ;  the  ashes  as  they 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          99 

fell  scorched  and  blistered,  and  then  the  calm,  grave  face  of 
Buell  blanched  a  little.  He  grappled  with  his  fate,  however, 
and  fought  the  flames.  Revolver  vollies  drove  his  men  from  the 
roof.  He  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  forlorn  hope,  and  went 
at  the  double  danger  like  a  hero.  Some  wind  blew.  George 
Shepherd  lifted  his  hat  from  his  hot  brow  and  felt  it  blow  cool 
there:  "  God  is  here/*  he  said  reverently.  "Hush,"  replied 
Poole,  "God  is  everywhere."  At  that  moment  Colonel 
Hughes  fell. 

A  great  cheer  from  the  camp  now — a  full,  passionate,  exultant 
cheer,  and  then  not  a  gunshot  more.  All  was  over.  Colonel  Buell, 
no  longer  in  command  of  a  force,  surrendered  unconditionally. 
As  he  had  done  unto  others,  so  in  a  greater  degree  did  others 
do  unto  him.  Black  flag  men  were  about  him  in  great  numbers, 
but  not  so  much  as  a  single  upbraiding  was  ever  heard  from  a 
Guerrilla's  lips.  If  Quantrell's  men  could  have  been  decorated 
for  that  day's  fight,  and  if  at  review  some  typical  thing  that 
stood  for  glory  could  have  passed  along  the  ranks,  calling  the 
roll  of  the  brave,  there  would  have  answered  modestly,  yet 
righteously:  Haller,  Gregg,  Todd,  Jarrette,  Morris,  Poole, 
Younger,  James  Tucker,  Blunt,  George  Shepherd,  Yager,  Hicks 
George,  Sim.  Whitsett,  Fletch.  Taylor,  John  Ross,  Dick  Burns, 
Kit  Cbiles,  Dick  Maddox,  Fernando  Scott,  Sam.  Clifton,  George 
Maddox,  Sam.  Hamilton,  Press.  Webb,  John  Coger,  Dan. 
Vaughn,  and  twenty  others,  dead  now,  but  dead  in  vain  for 
their  country.  There  were  no  decorations,  however,  but  there 
was  a  deliverance.  Crammed  in  the  county  jail,  and  sweltering 
in  the  midsummer's  heat  were  old  men  who  had  been  pioneers 
in  the  land,  and  young  men  who  had  been  sentenced  to  die. 
The  first  preached  the  Confederacy  and  it  triumphant;  the  last 
to  make  it  so  enlisted  for  the  war.  These  jail-birds,  either  as 
missionaries  or  militants,  had  work  to  do. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LONE  JACK. 

AFTER  Independence  there  was  a  lull  of  a  few  brief  days. 
Kansas  City  drew  in  all  of  its  outposts  and  showed  a 
naked  front  to  whoever  would  attack.  The  swoop  of  the  eagles 
outside  of  it  had  alarmed  the  border ;  Kansas  prairies  might 
next  resound  with  the  iron  feet  of  the  marching  squadrons. 

Recruiting  officers  were  riding  up  from  the  South  through  all 
the  summer  days — some  to  tarry  awhile  in  Jackson  county,  and 
some  to  borrow  guides  from  Quantrell  and  strike  unguarded 
fords  along  the  river.  Enthusiasm — that  virile  breeder  of  vol- 
unteers— was  abroad  in  Missouri.  Even  in  her  remotest 
extremities  the  Confederacy's  life  blood  was  in  vigorous  circu- 
lation ;  ossification  at  the  heart  commenced  only  when  a  factious 
Congress  began  to  put  on  crape  at  the  mention  of  martial  law. 

En  route  to  regions  where  battalions  grew,  Col.  John  T. 
Coffee  had  entered  the  Southwest  from  Arkansas.  He  had  been 
the  stern  nurse  of  hardy  men.  The  war  found  him  a  politician 
and  made  him  a  patriot.  He  had  great  popularity  through 
much  patience  with  the  people.  Men  of  the  scythe- blade  and 
the  plow,  men  who  mowed  in  the  lowlands  and  reaped  on 
the  hillsides  were  not  damned  on  the  drill  ground  and  badgered 
at  the  inspection  because  Hardee  and  heathen  with  all  too  many 
were  synonymous  terms.  Round-shouldered  riflemen  shot  none 
the  worse  for  dressing  up  badly  in  parade  with  square-shoul- 
dered giants,  and  the  stammerer — who  to  keep  some  tryst  or  to 
receive  some  blessing  begged  for  a  furlough — got  no  aloes  at 
least  in  the  little  wine  of  human  nature  the  service  let  be  doled 
out  to  him.  Coffee  recruited  a  regiment. 

Col.  Vard  Cockrell,  preceding  Coffee  a  day's  march  or  two, 
awaited  a  junction  at  the  Osage  River.  Cockrell  was  a  Chris- 
tian who  sometimes  preached.  His  revolutionary  ideas  were 
but  a  form  of  his  evangelical  faith.  He  believed  the  devil  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  101 

author  of  all  evil  in  a  spiritual  point  of  view,  the  Abolitionists 
the  cause  of  all  the  trouble  in  a  political.  To  fight  both  was 
superlative  orthodoxy.  In  battle  it  is  believed  that  he  prayed — 
notably  short  prayers  like  Lord  Astley  made  at  Edgehill,  which 
battle  was  fought  between  Charles  1.  and  the  Puritans:  "Oh! 
Lord,  thou  knowest  how  busy  I  must  be  this  day.  If  I  forget 
Thee,  do  not  Thou  forget  me.  March  on,  boys !"  Like  Coffee, 
Cockrell  also  recruited  a  regiment. 

Captain  J.  O.  Shelby — only  a  captain  then,  leading  CockrelFa 
advance — had  marched  from  Tupuelo,  Mississippi,  on  foot, 
through  Arkansas  on  foot,  into  Missouri  on  foot,  and  still  north- 
ward and  northward  on  foot  until  he  struck  the  horse  line.  The 
most  of  those  who  followed  him  had  no  beards.  He  found  them 
ruddy  country  lads  with  here  and  there  a  city's  eager,  sallow 
face,  and  he  left  them  Indians.  Shelby  understood  war  both  as 
an  instinct  and  a  religion.  He  did  not  play  the  great  man;  he 
was  one.  Some  soldiers  understood  the  movement  solely  of  the 
revolution ;  Shelby  both  its  movement  and  its  direction.  Some 
had  its  intoxication ;  he  both  its  intoxication  and  its  love.  Its 
energy,  agitation,  generosity,  intrepidity — all  were  his;  but 
nothing  of  its  ferocity.  His  genius  was  his  audacity;  but  it 
was  more.  He  saw  God  in  men  and  he  used  them ;  a  fatalist, 
and  yet  he  left  nothing  to  chance ;  ardent,  he  made  his  enthu- 
siasm subsidiary  to  his  thought;  feeling  the  passions,  he  yet 
represented  the  superiorities  of  the  epoch ;  young,  older  officers 
trusted  their  interests  and  ambitions  to  his  keeping ;  a  giant,  he 
lifted  his  soldiers  up  to  him;  after  caressing  popularity,  he 
braved  it  as  a  wild  beast  which  he  dared  to  devour  him ;  a  gen- 
eral, beyond  the  mechanism  of  a  division  he  grasped  the  ideal ; 
courageous,  his  intrepidity  had  soul ;  he  had  passions,  but  he 
was  generous ;  crushing  incapacity,  he  also  plucked  favoritism 
up  by  the  roots  and  out  of  his  own  breast ;  he  entered  Missouri 
a  captain,  and  he  left  it  a  brigadier  general,  carrying  his 
brigade  with  him. 

Col.  S.  D.  Jackraan,  part  Guerrilla  and  part  regular,  carried 
over  to  the  line  the  circumspection  of  the  ambuscade.  He 
fought  to  kill,  and  to  kill  without  paying  the  price  that  ostenta- 
tious fighting  invariably  costs.  Patient,  abiding  as  a  rock  in 
the  tide  of  battle ;  satisfied  with  small  gains,  but  not  carried 
away  by  large  ones ;  serene  under  any  sky,  and  indomitable  to 


102  NOTED  GUEBEILLAS,  OR 

the  end  of  the  play,  he  also  recruited  a  regiment  which  after- 
wards grew  into  a  brigade. 

Col.  Charles  Tracy — lying  along  the  southern  border  of  the 
State  for  several  months,  waiting  for  a  dash — hurried  up  with  the 
crowd  and  threw  himself  in  the  van  of  the  recruiting  service. 
Indefatigable ;  once  an  Indian  fighter ;  on  a  trail  like  a  Coinan- 
che,  and  in  the  darkness  like  a  night  hawk ;  winning  with  young 
men  and  enterprising  with  brave  ones ;  a  cavalryman  by  educa- 
tion and  a  leader  through  great  vitality  and  perception,  he  gath- 
ered up  a  regiment  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies,  and  had  it  bap- 
tized before  it  was  armed. 

Col.  D.  C.  Hunter  came  also  from  his  lair,  as  a  grizzly  might, 
where  the  winter  had  been  hard  and  the  deep  snows  frozen.  In 
gaps  in  the  Boston  Mountains  he  had  held  on  to  roads  until  their 
names  grew  evil,  and  on  to  passes  until  Federal  detachments 
swore  the  devil  was  there.  He  was  a  still  hunter.  No  pomp, 
nor  circumstance,  nor  rattling  scabbards  made  women  turn  and 
curiosity  preak  out  its  neck  when  Hunter  marched  down  to  a 
fight.  Everything  was  matter  of  fact ;  so  many  rounds  so  many 
killed.  To-morrow  was  to  take  care  of  itself;  to-day  belonged 
to  clean  guns  and  dry  powder.  Eat — certainly,  when  there 
was  anything  to  eat ;  sleep — most  assuredly,  when  sleep  could 
be  had.  If  neither  was  possible,  then  patience  and  another 
round  or  two  at  the  enemy.  Such  a  man  of  course  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  getting  a  regiment. 

Coffee,  Cockrell,  Tracy,  Hunter  and  Jackman,  therefore — 
having  communicated  with  Hays — commenced  recruiting. 
Neither  of  these  men  desired  a  battle.  The  brush  of  Western 
Missouri  was  full  of  Southern  men,  driven  from  their  homes  by 
the  militia.  Little  camps  in  the  counties  of  Jackson,  Clay, 
Platte,  Lafayette,  Johnson,  Cass,  Bates  and  Ray,  sent  their 
squads  daily  to  either  officer— sent  fours,  twos,  single  volunteers, 
bent  only  upon  getting  to  the  regular  army  and  getting  arms 
after  they  reached  there.  Certainly,  therefore,  it  was  not  tactics 
for  the  Confederates  to  hunt  for  a  fight,  much  less  to  take  the 
chances  of  a  doubtful  one. 

Even  the  Guerrillas,  as  desperate  as  the  nature  of  their  serv- 
ices had  become,  saw  a  single  company  swelled  nearly  to  a  reg- 
iment. Establishing  a  rendezvous  first  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Blue  Springs,  and  next  at  the  residence  of  Luther  Mason,  three 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  103 

hundred  splendid  young  fellows  came  trooping  in  to  Quantrell. 
Jarre tte  commanded  one  company,  Gregg  one,  Scott  one,  and 
Haller  the  old  original  organization.  For  the  time  Quantrell 
had  a  battalion.  Todd  was  lieutenant  under  Haller,  Colemau 
Younger  under  Jarrette,  Hendrix  under  Gregg,  and  Gilkey 
under  Scott.  Of  the  above,  Quantrell  is  dead,  Gilkey  dead,  Hal- 
ler dead,  Hendrix  dead,  Todd  dead — all  slain  in  desperate 
battle. 

The  fall  of  Fort  Sumter,  like  a  huge  mine,  had  exploded  the 
passions  of  a  continent.  Missouri,  hearing  the  deep  and  porten- 
tous reverberations,  listened  with  her  hand  upon  her  sword. 
She  had  politicians  but  no  statesmen ;  determination  but  no 
unanimity.  Her  Governor,  reared  in  the  facile  and  compromis- 
ing school  of  American  Democracy,  showed  a  gloved  hand  to 
those  who  kept  perilous  ward  in  the  St.  Louis  Arsenal. 
Beneath  all  its  velvet,  however,  there  was  no  iron.  Three  days 
after  Lyon  took  command  he  laughed ;  as  he  looked  city-ward 
he  was  bland.  In  a  week  he  was  sullen  and  dangerous, 
and  began  to  show  his  teeth.  In  a  month  he  was  vicious  and 
shed  the  blood  of  women  in  the  streets  of  St.  Louis.  It  may 
have  been  necessary.  Trades-people  and  farmers  need  death 
dashed  against  their  eyes  in  some  terrible  way  to  understand 
revolution. 

Far  west  in  the  State  some  hastily  gathered  volunteers  met 
the  United  States  dragoons  under  Sturgis.  Retreating  sullenly, 
the  dragoons  turned  once  fairly  to  bay  and  Halloway  and  Mc- 
Clannahan  fell.  Another  necessity  in  this  that  it  taught  younger 
officers  how  to  die.  The  issue  was  made  ;  blood  had  been  spilt 
in  the  East  and  in  the  West ;  Governor  Jackson  was  a  fugitive ; 
his  young  men  were  mustering;  the  din  of  preparation  re- 
sounded throughout  the  State,  and  Lexington  was  named  as  a 
mustering  place. 

Hither  came  a  young  man  leading  a  cavalry  company.  His 
uniform  was  attractive  and  differed  only  from  that  of  the  men  in 
the  single  point  of  a  feather.  Women  lifted  their  eyes  as  he 
passed  and  said:  "How  handsome  he  is."  Men  gazed  after 
him  and  his  uniform  and  said  complacently:  "He  dresses  like  a 
soldier/'  Quite  a  difference,  truly,  in  the  opinion  expressed. 
One  reasoned  from  the  head,  and  the  other  from  the  heart. 

This  uniformed  company  had  something  of  drill,  something 


104  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

of  discipline,  more  of  stalwart  vigor  and  bearing.  Its  com 
mander  was  Jo.  O.  Shelby,  swarthy  as  an  Arab,  brown-eyed, 
loved  of  the  conflict,  and  having  over  him,  as  an  invisible  aure- 
ole, the  halo  of  an  hundred  battles. 

The  weeks  and  the  war  grew  old  together.  Through  Carth- 
age, through  Oak  Hills,  through  Sugar  Creek,  through  Elk 
Horn,  this  man  led  his  followers,  and  those  who  fought  him  best 
will  bear  witness  that  only  at  long  intervals  did  any  enemy  see 
Jo.  Shelby's  back. 

Shiloh  lit  all  the  Southern  cotton-fields  with  fire,  and  Johnston 
fell  with  the  beautiful  corpse  of  victory  dead  upon  his  dead, 
cold  heart.  When  the  burial  bugles  sounded,  mistress  and 
lover  were  buried  together.  And  Farmington  followed,  and  a 
great  retreat,  and  in  the  rear  marched  Shelby,  the  jaunty  uni- 
forms stained  with  mud  of  Corinth  trenches — the  flowing  feather 
drooping  in  the  rain  of  Corinth  bivouacs.  The  sunshine  was 
alone  upon  their  bayonets  and  in  their  faces.  The  first  glistened 
all  along  the  route  to  Tupuelo,  the  last  lit  up  with  a  great  joy 
when  by  the  camp  fires  it  was  told  how  their  captain  had  been 
ordered  to  march  two  thousand  miles  into  Missouri — march  to 
the  river — to  the  Missouri  river — to  halt  there,  fight  there,  re- 
cruit there,  and  return  from  there  a  Colonel  commanding. 

From  a  Captain  to  a  Colonel  is  a  rugged  way  upwards  at 
times.  Every  step  that  Shelby  took  ran  over  in  blood.  He  had 
little  faith  in  battle?  where  nobody  was  killed,  and  he  valued  his 
fields  by  the  number  of  the  dead  upon  them.  The  richest  acres 
were  those  where  the  wreck  lay  thickest,  and  where,  on  either 
flank,  "men's  lives  fell  off  like  snow." 

Past  the  Mississippi,  fretted  with  iron  islands ;  past  White 
River,  black  with  the  sombre  fate  of  the  Mound  City ;  past  Lit- 
tle Rock,  listening  to  a  siren's  song,  and  dreaming  of  an  early 
peace  ;  past  the  Arkansas,  sickly  with  conscripts ;  up  upon  the 
borders  of  Missouri,  the  promised  land,  he  came,  this  leader 
Shelby,  having  in  his  hands  a  last  commission  from  Earl  Van 
Dorn,  that  peerless  Launcelot,  over  whom  the  famous  funeral 
oration  might  have  been  pronounced  when  they  carried  him 
away  and  buried  him  in  Joyeuse  Guard,  the  truest,  noblest, 
simplest  ever  uttered : 

4 'Ah!  Sir  Launcelot,  there  thou  liest  that  never  wert  matched 
of  earthly  hands.  Thou  wert  the  fairest  person,  and  the  good- 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDEE  105 

liest  of  any  that  rode  in  the  press  of  Knights ;  thou  wert  the 
truest  to  thy  sworn  brother  of  any  that  buckled  on  the  spur ; 
and  thou  wert  the  faithfulest  of  any  that  have  loved  women ; 
most  courteous  wert  thou,  and  gentle  of  all  that  sat  in  hall 
among  dames ;  and  thou  wert  the  sternest  Knight  to  thy  mortal 
foe  that  ever  laid  spear  in  the  rest.'* 

Patience !  It  is  of  the  Lone  Jack  battle  I  write,  but  all  things 
must  have  a  beginning.     Had  there  been  no  Shelby,  there  would 
have  been  no  Lone  Jack  battle.     With  this  commission,  there 
fore,  of  Gen.  Earl  Van  Dorn  in  his  hands,  Shelby  waited  two 
brief  days  on  the  Missouri  border,  next  door  to  Arkansas. 

With  his  brown  eyes  fixed  on  the  buff  sash  of  a  Brigadier, 
Shelby  led  Cockrell's  advance  with  a  speed  that  annihilated 
distance,  and  gave  no  time  for  fatigue.  If  he  slept  at  all,  he 
slept  in  the  saddle.  For  food,  the  men  drew  as  rations  ten 
roasting-ears  a  day.  There  was  no  time  to  kill  or  to  cook  what 
might  be  eaten. 

Preceding  this  march  by  a  dozen  summer  days,  Col.  John  T. 
Coffee  had  come  with  his  irregular  cavalry,  and  news  drifted 
back  of  broken  skirmishes  wherein  he  was  worsted.  Shooting 
at  long  range  and  not  of  necessity  always,  Coffee's  scant  am- 
munition had  grown  scantier,  and  hemmed  in  upon  the  Osage 
river,  he  had  sent  a  bold  borderer  forward  praying  for  help  and 
succor  in  extiemity.  Cockrell  was  in  Johnson  county  when 
the  messenger  came.  Coffee  was  southward  still  some  thirty 
miles.  "The  horses  are  tired,  the  men  are  tired,  we  have  little 
time.  Shall  we  countermarch,  Shelby?"  "Yes,  if  it  takes  the 
last  soldier,  and  the  last  horse,  and  the  last  cartridge.  Fall  in ! 
Trot — march!"  And  the  black  plume  galloped  back  thirty 
miles,  and  the  brown  eyes  had  found  a  battle-light,  and  the 
bronzed  face  smiled  only  at  intervals  now.  Coffee  was  not  a 
prudent  man  always,  and  whether  knee  deep  or  breast  deep  in 
danger,  Shelby  meant  to  cut  him  out  or  die  there. 

The  rescue,  however,  cost  no  gunpowder.  The  stream, 
which  was  at  first  merely  a  rivulet,  had  become  to  be  a  river. 
The  tide  set  strongly  in  towards  the  west  again,  and  divided 
only  upon  the  line  of  Jackson  county — Coffee  and  Cockrell 
going  to  Independence,  Shelby  to  Waverly,  where  a  massed 
regiment  of  Confederates  awaited  him. 

And  now  the  work  of  Shelby  in  the  Lone  Jack  battle :     Cock- 


106  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OS 

rell,  left  to  himself  and  his  own  resources,  would  not  have 
countermarched.  Coffee,  without  succor  and  a  swift  column  to 
help  him,  might  have  perished.  There  would,  consequently, 
have  been  no  commingling  of  forces,  no  aggressive  movements 
on  the  part  of  Cockrell's  weak  detachment,  no  attack  anywhere, 
and  in  the  end  a  distant  bow  to  the  resolute  Federals  keeping 
grim  watch  and  ward  upon  the  Sni  hills,  and  holding  Lone  Jack 
and  all  the  country  roundabout. 

It  was  an  August  day,  hot  but  with  some  wind.  God  had 
blessed  the  earth ;  the  harvests  were  abundant.  On  the  after- 
noon of  the  13th  some  clouds  began  to  gather  about  Lone  Jack, 
a  small  village  in  the  eastern  portion  of  Jackson  county.  Once 
a  lone  black  jack  tree  stood  there — taller  than  its  companions 
and  larger  than  any  near  to  it ;  from  this  tree  the  town  took  its 
name.  The  clouds  that  were  seen  gathering  there  were  cav- 
alrymen. Succoring  recruits  in  every  manner  possible,  and 
helping  them  on  to  rendezvous  by  roads,  or  lanes,  or  water- 
courses, horsemen  acquainted  with  the  country  kept  riding 
continually  up  and  down.  A  company  of  these,  on  the  evening 
of  the  15th,  were  in  the  village  of  Lone  Jack.  Cockrell  was 
also  in  the  neighborhood,  but  not  visible.  Coffee  was  there 
also,  and  Tracy,  Jackman,  Hunter  and  Hays— that  is  to  say, 
within  striking  distance. 

Major  Emory  L.  Foster,  doing  active  scouting  duty  in  the 
region  round  about  Lexington,  had  his  headquarters  in  the 
town.  The  capture  of  Independence  had  been  like  a  blow 
upon  the  cheek ;  he  would  avenge  it.  He  knew  how  to  fight. 
There  was  dash  about  him ;  he  had  enterprise ;  he  believed  in 
esprit  du  corps;  prairie  life  had  enlarged  his  vision  and  he  did 
not  see  the  war  like  a  martinet ;  he  felt  within  him  the  glow  of 
generous  ambition ;  he  loved  his  uniform  for  the  honor  it  had ; 
he  would  see  about  that  Independence  business — about  that 
Quantrell  living  between  the  two  Blues  and  raiding  the  west — 
about  those  gray  recruiting  folks  riding  up  from  the  South — 
about  the  tales  of  ambuscades  that  were  told  eternally  of 
Jackson  county,  and  of  the  toils  spread  for  unwary  Jayhawk- 
ers.  He  had  heard,  too,  of  the  company  which  halted  a 
moment  in  Lone  Jack  as  it  passed  through,  and  of  course  it  was 
Quantrell. 

It  was  six  o'clock — the   hour  when  the  Confederates  were 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  107 

there — and  8  o'clock  when  Col.  Foster  marched  in,  leading 
nine  hundred  and  eighty-five  cavalry,  with  two  pieces  of  RabVs 
Indiana  battery — a  battery  much  celebrated  for  tenacious  gun- 
ners and  accurate  firing.  Cockrell  knew  Foster  well ;  the  other 
Confederates  knew  nothing  about  him.  He  was  there,  however, 
and  that  was  positive  proof  enough  that  he  wanted  a  fight. 

Cockrell,  Hays,  Hunter,  Tracy,  Coffee  and  Jackman  had 
between  them  about  nine  hundred  men.  Coffee  with  two 
hundred  men  did  not  arrive  in  time  to  participate  in  the  fight, 
and  this  contretemps  simplified  the  situation  thus:  Seven 
hundred  Confederates — armed  with  shot  guns,  horse  pistols, 
squirrel  rifles,  regulation  guns,  and  what  not — attacked  nine 
hundred  and  eighty-five  Federals  in  a  town  for  a  position,  and 
armed  with  Spencer  rifles  and  Colt's  revolvers,  dragoon  size. 
There  was  also  the  artillery.  Lone  Jack  sat  quietly  in  the  green 
of  its  emerald  prairies,  its  orchards  in  fruit  and  its  harvests 
goodly.  On  the  west  was  timber,  and  in  this  timber  a  stream 
ran  musically  and  peacefully  along.  To  the  east  the  prairies 
undulated,  their  grass  waves  crested  with  sunshine.  On  the 
north  there  were  groves  in  which  birds  abounded.  In  some 
even  the  murmuring  of  doves  was  heard,  and  an  infinite  tremor 
ran  over  all  the  leaves  as  the  winds  stirred  the  languid  pulse  of 
summer  into  fervor. 

In  the  center  of  the  town  a  large  hotel  made  a  strong  fortifi- 
cation. The  house,  from  being  a  tavern,  had  become  to  be  a 
redoubt.  From  the  top  the  stars  and  stripes  floated  proudly — 
a  tri-color  that  had  upon  it  then  more  of  sunshine  than  of  blood. 
Later  the  three  colors  had  become  four. 

On  the  verge  of  the  prairie  nearest  the  town  a  hedgerow 
stood  as  a  line  of  infantry  dressed  for  battle.  It  was  plumed 
on  the  sides  with  tawny  grass.  The  morning  broke  upon  it  and 
upon  armed  men  crouching  there,  with  a  strange  barred  banner 
and  with  guns  at  a  trail.  Here  Bohannon  waited,  his  calm  eyes 
fixed  on  the  stark  redoubt  of  the  Cave  House  and  eager  for  the 
signal. 

On  the  north  and  northwest  there  were  cornfields  as  well  as 
groves.  In  the  cornfields  Hays  held  his  men  in  the  hollow  of 
his  two  hands — that  is  to  say,  perfectly  under  his  control.  The 
dew  upon  his  beard  glistened.  It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock.  In 
the  east  the  sleepy  soul  of  the  sunshine  had  not  yet  clothed  itself 


108  NOTED  GUEKBILLAS,  OE 

with  the  sweet,  gracious  wings  of  warmth  and  moisture.  The 
great  face  of  the  dawn  was  unveiled  and  looked  down  upon  the 
earth  tenderly.  It  was  that  sacred  hour  when  the  faint,  uni- 
versal stir  of  awakening  life  gives  glory  to  God  and  grandeur  to 
nature.  No  white  dimple  stirred  among  the  corn,  Hays*  men 
were  so  still.  The  low  ripple  of  the  leaves  had  a  tremor  and  a 
shiver  that  were  ominous.  By  and  by  in  the  east  a  sunrise-city 
was  open-gated  and  all  unfastened  flashed  a  golden  door.  The 
sun  would  be  up  in  an  hour. 

Joining  Hays  on  the  left  was  Cockrell,  and  the  detachments  of 
Cockrell,  Hays,  Rathburn  and  Bohannon.  Their  arms  were 
as  varied  as  their  uniforms.  It  was  a  duel  they  were  going 
into  and  each  man  had  the  gun  he  could  handle  best.  From 
the  hedge-row,  from  the  green-growing  corn,  from  the  orchards 
and  the  groves  the  soldiers  could  not  see  much,  save  the  flag 
flying  skyward  on  the  redoubt  of  the  Cave  House. 

At  five  o'clock  a  solitary  gunshot  alarmed  camp  and  garri- 
son, and  outlying  videttes,  and  all  the  soldiers  face  to  face  with 
imminent  death.  No  one  knew  thereafter  how  the  fight  com- 
menced. It  was  Missourian  against  Missourian — neighbor 
against  neighbor— the  rival  flags  waved  over  each,  and  the  kill- 
ing went  on.  This  battle  has  about  it  a  strange  fascination.  The 
combatants  were  not  numerous,  yet  they  fought  as  men  seldom 
fight  in  detached  bodies.  The  same  fury  extended  to  an  army 
would  have  ended  in  annihilation.  A  tree  was  a  fortification.  A 
hillock  was  an  ambush.  The  corn  fields  from  being  green  became 
to  be  lurid.  Dead  men  were  in  the  groves.  The  cries  of  the 
wounded  came  up  from  the  apple  orchards.  All  the  houses  in 
the  town  were  garrisoned.  It  was  daylight  upon  the  prairies, 
yet  there  were  lights  in  the  windows — the  light  of  musket  flashes. 
The  grim  redoubt  of  the  Cave  House  grew  hotter  and  hotter  un- 
til it  flared  out  in  a  great  gust  of  fire.  There  was  a  woman  there 
— Mrs.  Cave — young,  beautiful,  a  mother.  She  tried  to  escape, 
but  muskets  hemmed  her  in.  Corpses  lay  in  her  path  upon  the 
right  hand  and  upon  the  left.  There  was  blood  upon  her  feet, 
and  a  great  terror  in  her  soft,  feminine  eyes.  She  did  not  even 
cry  out.  In  one  sublime  moment  the  tender  young  matron  had 
caught  a  heroism  not  of  this  earth.  In  the  next  she  was  dead 
upon  her  own  doorstep,  a  bullet  through  her  maternal  breast. 
Oh  War!  War  I 


THE  WARFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  109 

There  is  not  much  to  say  about  the  fight  in  the  way  of  de- 
scription. The  Federals  were  in  Lone  Jack;  the  Confederates 
had  to  get  them  out.  House  fighting  and  street  fighting  are 
always  desperate.  Cool  men  allied  to  walls  defy  everything 
except  fire.  The  bullet  rain  that  in  an  open  field  would  scarcely 
penetrate,  in  the  angles  and  protuberances  of  a  street  is  a  tem- 
pest. Where  once  were  curtains,  white  or  damask — trans- 
figured faces,  powder-scorched ;  where  once  were  latch-strings — 
gaping  muzzles;  among  the  roses — dead  men;  where  lovers  lin- 
gered late  and  trystings  were  sweet  or  stolen — pitiful  pale  faces, 
wan  in  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore.  Smoke  came 
from  chimneys — marksmen  were  there ;  at  the  garden  gates 
skirmishers  crouched ;  upon  the  street  corners  companies  con- 
centrated ;  the  hotel  was  a  hospital,  later  a  holocaust ;  the  can- 
noniers  stood  by  their  guns  and  died  there ;  and  over  all  rose 
and  shone  a  blessed  summer  sun,  while  the  airy  fingers  of  the 
breeze  ruffled  the  oak  leaves  and  tuned  the  swaying  branches 
to  the  sound  of  a  psalm. 

The  gray  coats  crept  nearer.  On  the  east,  west,  north  or 
south  Hays,  Cockrell,  Tracy,  Jackman,  Rathburn,  or  Hunter 
gained  ground.  Farmer  lads  in  their  first  battle  began  gawky  and 
ended  grenadiers.  Old  plug  hats  rose  and  fell  as  the  red  fight 
ebbed  and  flowed ;  the  shotgun's  heavy  boom  made  clearer  still 
the  rifle's  sharper  crack;  under  the  powder-pall  boyish  faces 
shone  in  the  glare  with  the  bearded  ones.  An  hour  passed ;  the 
struggle  had  lasted  since  daylight. 

Foster  fought  his  men  splendidly.  Wounded  once,  he  did 
not  make  complaint ;  wounded  again,  he  kept  his  place ; 
wounded  the  third  time,  he  stood  with  his  men  until  courage 
and  endurance  only  prolonged  a  sacrifice.  Once  Haller,  com- 
manding thirty  of  Quantrell's  old  men,  swept  up  to  the  guns  and 
over  them,  the  play  of  their  revolvers  being  as  the  play  of  the 
lightning  in  a  summer  cloud.  He  could  not  hold  them,  brave 
as  he  was.  Then  Jackman  rushed  at  them  again  and  bore  them 
backward  twenty  paces  or  more.  Counter-charged,  they  ham- 
mered his  grip  loose  and  drove  him  down  the  hill.  Then  Hays 
and  Hunter — with  the  old  plug  hats  and  the  wheezy  old  rifles — 
finished  the  throttling ;  the  lions  were  done  roaring. 

Tracy  had  been  wounded,  Hunter  wounded,  Hays  wounded, 
Captains  Bryant  and  Bradley  killed,  among  the  Confederates, 


110  NOTED  aUEKEILLAS,  OR 

together  with  thirty-six  others,  and  one  hundred  and  thirty-four 
wounded;  among  the  Federals,  Foster,  the  commander,  was 
nigh  unto  death;  his  brother,  Captain  Foster,  shot  mortally 
died  afterwards ;  one  hundred  and  thirty-six  dead  lay  about  the 
streets  and  houses  of  the  town,  and  five  hundred  and  fifty 
wounded  made  up  the  aggregate  of  a  fight,  numbers  considered, 
as  desperate  and  bloody  as  any  that  ever  crimsoned  the  annals 
of  a  civil  war.  A  few  over  two  hundred  breaking  through  the 
Confederate  lines  on  the  south,  where  they  were  weakest, 
rushed  furiously  into  Lexington,  Haller  in  pursuit  as  some 
beast  of  prey,  leaping  upon  everything  which  attempted  to 
make  a  stand  between  Lone  Jack  and  Wellington. 

Dies  irce!  The  moan  that  went  up  through  Poictiers  and 
Aquitaine  when  at  Lussac  bridge  the  lance  head  of  a  Breton 
squire  found  the  life  of  John  Chandos,  had  counterpart  at 
Kansas  City  and  all  the  country  round  about.  Again  did  the 
little  posts  run  into  the  big  ones.  Commanders  turned  pale. 
A  mighty  blow  seemed  impending,  and  lest  this  head  or  that 
head  felt  the  trip-hammer,  all  the  heads  kept  wagging  and 
dodging.  Burris  got  out  of  Cass  county ;  Jennison  hurried  into 
Kansas;  the  Guerrillas  kept  a  sort  of  open  house,  and  the 
recruits — drove  after  drove  and  mostly  unarmed,  hastened 
southward.  Then  the  Federal  wave — which  had  at  first  receded 
beyond  all  former  boundaries,  flowed  back  again  and  inundated 
Western  Missouri.  Quantrell's  nominal  battalion — yielding  to 
the  pressure  of  the  exodus — left  him  only  the  old  guard  as  a 
rallying  point.  It  was  necessary  again  to  reorganize.  Gregg 
was  made  First  Lieutenant ;  Todd,  Second ;  Scott,  Third ;  Blunt, 
Orderly  Sergeant;  James  Tucker,  First  Duty  Sergeant; 
Younger,  Second ;  Hendrix,  Third ;  Poole,  Fourth ;  James 
Little,  First  Corporal;  Dick  Burnes,  Second;  Hicks  George, 
Third,  and  Hi.  George,  Fourth.  After  this  re-organization, 
the  Guerrillas  stripped  themselves  for  steady  fighting.  Incidents 
and  personages  suited  the  epoch.  Federal  troops  were  every- 
where ;  infantry  at  the  posts,  cavalry  on  the  war  paths.  The 
sombre  defiance  mingled  with  despair  did  not  come  until 
1864 ;  in  1862  the  Guerrillas  laughed  as  they  fought.  And  they 
fought  by  streams  and  bridges,  where  roads  crossed  and  forked 
and  where  trees  or  hollows  were.  They  fought  from  houses 
and  hay -stacks ;  on  foot  and  on  horseback ;  at  night,  when  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER         HI 

weird  laughter  of  the  owls  could  be  heard  in  the  thickets ;  in 
daylight,  when  the  birds  sang  as  they  found  sweet  seed.  The 
black  flag  was  being  woven,  but  it  had  not  yet  been  unfurled. 

Breaking  suddenly  out  of  Jackson  county,  Quantrell  raided 
Shawneetown,  Kansas,  and  captured  its  garrison  of  fifty  militia. 
Then  at  Olathe,  Kansas,  the  next  day,  the  right  hand  did  what 
the  left  one  finished  so  well  at  Shawneetown ;  seventy-five  Fed- 
erals surrendered  here.  Each  garrison  was  paroled  and  set  free 
— e.'ich  garrison  save  seven  from  Shawneetown ;  these  were 
Jennison's  Jayhawkers  and  they  had  to  die.  A  military  execu- 
tion is  where  one  man  kills  another ;  it  is  horrible.  In  battle 
one  does  not  see  death.  He  is  there  surely — he  is  in  that  bat- 
tery's smoke,  on  the  crest  of  that  hill  fringed  with  the  fringe  of 
pallid  faces,  under  the  hoofs  of  the  horses,  yonder  where  the 
blue  or  the  gray  line  creeps  onward  trailing  ominous  guns — but 
his  cold,  calm  eyes  look  at  no  single  victim.  He  kills  there — 
yes  but  he  does  not  discriminate.  Harold,  the  dauntless,  or 
Robin,  the  hunchback — what  matters  a  crown  or  a  (frutch  to  the 
immortal  reaper? 

The  seven  men  rode  into  Missouri  from  Shawneetown  puz- 
zled ;  when  the  heavy  timber  along  the  Big  Blue  was  reached 
and  a  halt  had,  they  were  praying.  Quantrell  sat  upon  his 
horse  looking  at  the  Kansans.  His  voice  was  unmoved,  his 
countenance  perfectly  indifferent  as  he  ordered  :  "Bring  ropes; 
four  on  one  tree — three  on  another."  All  of  a  sudden  death 
stood  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  was  recognized.  One  poor  fel- 
low gave  a  cry  as  piercing  as  the  neigh  of  a  frightened  horse. 
Two  trembled,  and  trembling  is  the  first  step  towards  kneeling. 
They  had  not  talked  any  save  among  themselves  up  to  this  time, 
but  when  they  saw  Blunt  busy  with  some  ropes,  one  spoke  up 
to  Quantrell :  "Captain,  just  a  word :  the  pistol  before  the  rope  ; 
a  soldier's  before  a  dog's  death.  As  for  me,  I'm  ready."  Of 
all  the  seven  this  was  the  youngest — how  brave  he  was ! 

The  prisoners  were  arranged  in  a  line,  the  Guerrillas  opposite 
to  them.  They  had  confessed  to  belonging  to  Jennison,  but 
denied  the  charge  of  killing  and  burning.  Quantrell  hesitated 
a  moment.  His  blue  eyes  searched  each  face  from  left  to  right 
and  back  again,  and  then  he  ordered:  "Take  six  men,  Blunt, 
and  do  the  work.  Shoot  the  young  man  and  hang  the  balance." 

Hurry  away  1  The  oldest  man  there — some  white  hairs  were 


112  NOTED  GUEBBILLAS,  OR 

in  his  beard — prayed  audibly.  Some  embraced.  Silence  and 
twilight,  as  twin  ghosts,  crept  up  the  river  bank  together. 
Blunt  made  haste,  and  before  Quantrell  had  ridden  far  he  heard 
a  pistol  shot.  He  did  not  even  look  up ;  it  affected  him  no 
more  than  the  tapping  of  a  woodpecker.  At  daylight  the  next 
morning  a  wood-chopper  going  early  to  work,  saw  six  stark 
figures  swaying  in  the  river  breeze.  At  the  foot  of  another 
tree  was  a  dead  man  and  in  his  forehead  a  bullet-hole — the  old 
mark. 

When  in  every  hour  in  every  day  a  man  holds  his  life  out  in 
his  open  hands,  he  becomes  at  last  to  be  a  fatalist ;  and  fatal- 
ism is  granite.  It  stands  like  a  rock.  It  abides  the  worst 
without  a  tremor.  Fernando  Scott  was  one  of  those  men  whom 
revolutions  cast  up,  sometimes  to  be  Titans  and  sometimes  mon- 
sters. Todd  said  that  he  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
fear,  and  of  all  the  men  Todd  led  or  rode  with,  he  wept  for 
Scott  alone  the  night  they  buried  him. 

There  came  one  day  to  Quantrell  an  old  man,  probably  sixty 
years  of  age,  who  was  tremulous  and  garrulous.  .  He 'had  a  boy, 
he  said,  just  turned  of  eighteen,  who  was  his  main  stay  and  his 
sole  reliance.  Trouble  had  been  heavy  upon  him  of  late.  His 
wife  had  died,  a  daughter  had  died,  the  Jayhawkers  had  driven 
off  his  stock,  and  now  the  militia  had  arrested  his  boy.  Would 
Quantrell  help  him  to  get  his  son  back?  He  was  in  jail  in  Inde- 
pendence ;  they  were  cruel  to  him ;  his  old  heart  was  desolate 
and  his  old  home  was  without  a  prop.  Quantrell  listened  coldly. 
He  had  no  prisoners  to  exchange  for  his  son,  and  even  if  he  had, 
he  was  not  giving  soldiers  for  citizens.  Why  was  not  his  son  in 
the  army? 

It  was  pitiful  to  watch  the  look  of  hopeless  despair  which 
came  to  the  old  man's  face  when  QuantrelFs  practical  reply 
pierced  his  fond  illusions  like  some  sharp  thing  that  froze^as  it 
cut.  He  slid  down  from  a  sitting  posture  to  a  crouching  one 
and  began  to  moan  helplessly,  tears  forcing  themselves  through 
his  withered  fingers  as  he  tried  in  vain  to  cover  his  eyes  with  his 
hands.  Some  of  the  Guerrillas  turned  away  their  heads ;  others 
of  them  jeered  at  him.  Scott  did  neither.  He  went  to  the  old 
man  kindly  and  lifted  him  up.  "  Do  not  despair/*  he  said, 
almost  as  gently  as  a  saint  might  have  pleaded  with  a  sinner, 
"  and  you  shall  have  your  boy.  Silence,  men  I  Do  you  not  see 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  113 

that  the  old  man  is  crying?"  Quantrell  humored  his  Lieu- 
tenant. He  controlled  his  desperadoes  by  seeming  not  to  con- 
trol them.  His  discipline  was  rigid,  but  iron  as  it  was,  it  never 
clanked,  or  corroded,  or  hurt  one's  self-respect. 

Independence  was  strongly  garrisoned  again,  and  a  pioqnet 
station  on  the  Blue  Springs  road  had  at  the  outpost  four  men, 
and  at  the  reserve  sixteen — twenty  in  all.  Five  horsemen  in  the 
dusk  of  a  summer  evening,  were  riding  up  from  towards  the 
east — very  quiet  for  comrades  and  very  watchful  for  people  who 
seemed  to  have  business  there.  If  a  moon  had  been  in  the  sky, 
by  the  light  of  it  one  could  have  recognized  the  faces  of  8<-ott, 
Will  Haller,  Cole  Younger,  Sim  Whitsett  and  David  Poole — 
volunteers  all  in  Scott's  endeavor  to  solace  the  last  days  of  an 
old  man  whom  he  did  not  even  know.  Upon  the  left  flank  of 
the  road  on  which  were  the  picquets,  they  were  maneuvering 
to  get  between  the  reserves  and  the  outpost.  One  thing  alone 
favored  them — they  knew  the  country.  It  was  a  gentle  nitjht, 
all  starlight  and  summer  odor.  The  men  might  not  have  to 
fight — no  matter,  they  were  there  just  the  same.  A  little  halt 
was  called,  and  Scott  spoke  low  to  the  group:  "I  thank  you, 
men,  for  coming  here.  If  you  asked  me  why  the  old  man's  tale 
stirred  me  so,  and  why  the  yearning  was  so  strong  to  do  a  good 
act,  in  perhaps  a  bad  way,  I  could  not  tell  you  for  my  life.  May 
be  it  is  fate.  Do  any  of  you  understand  what  fate  is?  The 
other  day  at  Lone  Jack,  you  know,  we  charged  the  cannon, 
under  Haller  there.  About  the  guns  it  was  hell,  wasn't  it,  Bill? 
I  had  four  revolvers,  and  never  a  shot  left.  A  Federal  at  the 
corner  of  a  house,  not  twenty  yards  away,  fired  at  me  six  times 
and  missed  me  every  time,  though  I  did  not  dodge.  That  was 
fate."  But  the  Guerrillas  were  in  no  mood  to  moralize.  Poole 
broke  in  grimly :  u  That  was  d — d  bad  shooting."  The  poor 
fellow's  consoling  castle  fell  as  walnut  leaves  before  a  frosH,  and 
he  added  but  this:  "  They  won't  give  the  boy  up  for  less  than 
two,  perhaps  for  less  than  four.  Their  militia  are  not  set  much 
store  by,  even  among  the  commanders  of  them ;  but  the  pris- 
oner is  a  citizen  and  not  a  Guerrilla;  a  Guerrilla  is  not  for  ex- 
change at  any  price.  We  must  have  the  outpost  intact,  if  pos- 
sible." "  Hush!"  said  Younger,  in  a  whisper,  his  head  turned 
to  one  side  as  a  stag's  head,  "I  hear  horses."  Behind  them 
from  toward  the  reserves,  the  steady  tramp  of  regular  feet  were 
8 


114  NOTED  GUEEEILLASy  OE 

audible,  the  gait  being  a  walk.  "It  is  the  relief,"  spoke  up 
Whitsett,  in  a  moment;  and  "follow  me,"  was  heard  from 
Scott,  as  he  hurried  from  the  road  into  the  brush  and  drew  up 
again  in  its  heavy  shadow,  every  man  peering  forward  and  wait- 
ing eagerly.  £* 

One  file,  eight,  twenty,  fifty,  a  hundred — instead  of  a  relief 
picquet  going  forward  to  the  outpost,  it  was  a  marching  column 
of  Federal  cavalry  moving  the  Guerillas  did  not  know  where. 
"What  a  noisy  column!  Some  sang  from  the  rear,  and  others 
from  the  front.  Jest,  and  joke,  and  badinage  flew  along  from 
squadron  to  squadron.  Quantrell  was  everything — a  horse- 
thief,  murderer,  scoundrel,  villain,  man-eater,  cannibal,  devil- 
fish. They  would  roast  him,  draw  him,  quarter  him,  boil  him 
in  oil,  flay  him  alive — they  only  wanted  to  find  him  and  get  one 
fair  chance  at  him.  Scott's  little  band  heard  all  this  militia 
ebullition  and  laughed  in  their  throats  a  leather-stocking  laugh. 
Let  once  a  mare  whinney,  however,  or  a  horse  neigh,  and  then 
those  who  laughed  best  would  have  to  laugh  last. 

The  rear  guard  of  the  marching  column  was  barely  out  of 
sight  when  Scott  fell  in  behind  it.  As  he  neared  the  Independ- 
ence outpost  it  did  not  even  halt  him ;  luck  certainly  was  his 
to-night.  "One  each  for  all  of  you,  none  for  me,"  Scott  said, 
a  little  regretfully,  as  he  was  upon  the  four  militia  sitting 
quietly  in  their  saddles,  "and  now  to  work,  kill  only  in  extrem- 
ity." There  was  no  need  to  kill.  In  an  instant  Haller  had  a 
pistol  to  one  head,  Whitsett  to  another,  Younger  to  a  third,  and 
Poole  to  the  fourth ;  the  excitement  of  the  capture  was  scarcely 
•enough  to  add  to  it  interest.  The  Federals,  confident  to  the 
•end  that  the  Guerrillas  were  but  a  portion  of  the  command  which 
had  just  passed,  did  not  so  much  as  even  imagine  an  enemy 
until  they  were  powerless.  It  was  best  so.  Flight  could  not 
have  saved  them,  and  resistance  such  as  their's  must  have  been, 
meant  simply  sheep  against  the  shearers.  When  disarmed  and 
dismounted,  the  Federals  stood  amazed  in  the  presence  of  their 
captors.  Scott  asked  who  of  the  five  would  carry  them  to  Quan- 
trell. At  that  name  a  great  fear  fell  upon  the  prisoners.  One 
whispered  to  another,  but  his  excitement  made  him  audible : 
"My  God,  Joe,  has  it  come  to  this  at  last?  Quantrell!  Quantrell! 
Why  Quantrell  is  but  another  name  for  death."  The  leaven  was 
at  work.  The  two  trees  by  the  Big  Blue  had  begun  to  bear  other 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER         H5 

fruit  than  the  six   men  the  wood-chopper  found  of  a  summer 
morning  as  he  went  singing  to  his  work. 

No  one  would  go  back ;  they  had  tasted  the  strange  thing  of 
a  capture  without  a  fight,  and  it  was  bitter  to  the  mouth. 
"Draw  lots,"  said  Scott,  "and  if  it  falls  upon  me,  I  will  go 
back."  Whitselt  held  the  hat,  Haller  put  the  paper  in. 
They  all  drew,  and  Poole  drew  the  slip  with  the  word  guard  on 
it.  "Fall  in,  milish!"  he  cried  out  contentedly,  as  he  saw  his 
luck,  and  away  they  all  marched  through  the  night.  He  knew 
what  Scott  intended  to  do,  but  he  had  drawn.  Scott's  quick 
soldier  eye  saw  that  with  the  silent  capture  of  the  out-post  the 
reserve  was  uncovered,  and  he  would  beat  it  up  a  little.  Not 
satisfied  with  doing  thoroughly  what  he  had  but  small  hopes  of 
doing  at  all,  he  must  needs  go  further  if  he  fared  worse.  Luck 
still  abode  with  him,  he  said,  and  he  would  press  it.  Soldiers 
also  have  this  term  in  common  with  gamblers — the  only  differ- 
ence in  the  dice  being  the  difference  between  lead  and  ivory. 

It  was  scant  five  hundred  yards  between  the  reserve  and  the 
furthest  post,  and  yet  between  the  two  a  stream  ran  which 
had  very  steep  banks  but  no  bridge.  In  an  enemy's  country, 
also,  no  intermediate  sentinels  divided  up  the  distance.  The 
out-post — if  it  was  not  actually  cut  off  from  its  reserve — was 
almost  wholly  inaccessible  to  its  succor.  Scott  saw  all  this  as 
he  rode  down  and  spoke  of  it:  "These  militia  do  nothing 
right;  they  do  not  even  know  how  to  kill  a  gentleman."  But 
they  knew  how  to  be  on  guard.  As  the  four  Guerrillas  emerged 
from  the  darkness  into  the  light,  a  sergeant  with  the  reserve 
halted  them.  "Say  nothing,"  whispered  Scott,  "do  as  I  do, 
and  when  I  draw  my  pistol,  charge."  Then  speaking  up  to  the 
sergeant,  though  still  advancing,  he  replied  roughly:  "Why  do 
you  question  us?  We  have  just  passed  through  your  lines  and 
have  been  sent  back  with  special  dispatches  to  the  Colonel  at 
the  post.  Give  way."  He  was  upon  them  as  he  finished  and 
his  pistol  was  out.  So  close  indeed  was  he  that  when  he  shot 
the  sergeant  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead  the  powder  singed 
nis  eyebrows.  It  looked  mightily  afterwards  like  a  massacre. 
But  ten  of  the  sixteen  pickets  were  mounted,  while  those  on 
horseback  had  scarcely  time  to  fire  a  gun.  No  one  led.  When 
the  sergeant  fell  there  was  a  stampede — a  wild,  helpless,  sudden 
rending  away,  no  two  taking  the  same  direction,  and  on  the 


116  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OB 

east  the  town  of  Independence  was  absolutely  uncovered. 
Scott's  men  were  not  scratched.  Seven  dead  lay  about  the 
bivouac  fires,  and  several  wounded  hid  themselves  in  the  brush. 
By  noon  the  next  day  the  old  man's  boy  was  back  again  at  the 
homestead,  Scolt's  four  militia  buying  him  out  after  a  lengthy 
parley. 

Those  late  summer  and  early  autumn  days  were  busy  battle 
days.  Men  fought  mere  than  they  plowed ;  there  were  more 
forays  than  furrows.  Todd  took  thirty  men  and  went  down 
along  the  Harrisonville  and  Kansas  City  road  and  built  him  an 
ambuscade.  Getting  together  forty  or  fifty  picks  and  forty  or 
fifty  shovels  he  dug  a  series  of  trenches  along  the  highway  deep 
enough  to  shelter  a  hundred  men.  From  the  first  one  to  the 
last  one  it  was  a  hundred  yards — a  line  of  fire  that  would  eat  its 
way  furiously  through  any  column.  Back  of  these  trenches  was 
the  dry  bed  of  .a  stream — a  natural  bomb  proof  for  the  horses. 
Todd  did  things  in  this  way  generally ;  he  had  Scipio's  eye  and. 
the  brawn  of  Spartacus. 

Working  at  night  and  lying  by  in  the  day,  the  birds  even 
knew  nothing  of  the  traps  and  dead-falls  this  indefatigable 
hunter  was  setting  and  digging  for  larger  game  than  any  that, 
had  ever  abounded  since  on  Big  Creek  tUe  buffalo  grazed. 

Two  hundred  cavalry  with  ten  wagons  were  marching  up 
from  IL-nr}^  county  to  Leavenworth.  New  at  the  business, 
Quantrell's  name  had  only  came  to  them  as  the  name  of 
Jonathan  Wild  or  John  A.  Murrell.  Todd  let  them  pass  along 
until  their  line  lay  against  his  line,  and  then  the  rifle-pits  became 
a  tornado.  All  that  portion  of  the  column  in  front  of  them  was 
torn  out  as  a  fier  -e  wind  tears  a  track  through  the  trees,  the 
two  bleeding  ends  striving  helplessly  to  unite,  the  wagon  train 
being  the  ligature.  But  while  Todd  was  still  keeping  his  holes 
in  the  ground  a  veritable  furnace,  Scott  put  torches  to  the 
wagons  and  added  to  the  terrors  of  the  ambuscade  the  demor- 
alization of  a  conflagration.  Less  the  vehicles  and  seventy 
wounded  and  dead  men,  the  stricken  remnant  of  a  once  dashing 
column  gained  the  friendly  shelter  of  Kansas  City. 

Tae  rifle  pits  remained.  For  days  and  days  it  was  silent 
there,  and  from  the  torn  earth  some  grass  began  to  grow. 
Gregg  would  see  what  sort  of  a  footing  these  gave  a  Guerrilla 
who  had  some  scruples  about  fighting  at  odds  greater 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  117 

than  twenty  to  two.  He  came  one  evening  late,  with  Haller 
and  Scott,  and  prepared  to  keep  a  single  vigil  at  least  upon  the 
lonesome  water-course.  There  was  a  young  moon.  The  night, 
jubilant  with  singing  things,  seemed  to  dwell  upon  peace  in 
every  chirp,  or  breeze,  or  song,  or  monotone.  Nature  was 
glad ;  its  harmonies  filled  all  space  and  its  narcotism  all  the 
senses.  Even  the  Guerrillas  felt  the  Katydid's  droning  opiate, 
and  the  water's  running  lullaby.  Some  stretched  themselves  at 
ease  where  the  shadows  were  heaviest,  and  some — yielding  to 
the  witcheries  of  the  hour — let  memory  re-establish  the  past 
and  re-people  it  with  faces,  and  vows,  and  pieces  of  rings. 
All  were  silent. 

Suddenly  a  pistol-shot  from  the  south,  a  scattering  volley, 
and  'then  the  loud  clatter  of  resounding  hoofs  transfigured  the 
dreamers ;  the  lotos  leaves  had  become  laurel. 

Gregg  had  sent  George  Shepherd  south  along  the  road  before 
dismounting,  and  everything  must  be  safe  there.  It  was  Shep- 
herd's pistol  shot  that  he  had  heard,  and  the  galloping  of 
Shepherd's  horse.  Watching  with  all  the  eyes  he  had,  and 
especially  alert  and  vigilant,  this  choice  scout  had  not  seen  an 
infantry  line  approaching  him  through  the  brush,  however,  nor 
did  he  know  that  beyond  a  turn  in  the  road  three  hundred 
cavalrymen  had  ridden  up,  had  dismounted,  and  were  even  now 
marching  forward  to  surprise  the  surprisers ;  that  the  hunted 
were  hunting  the  hunters.  But  that  he  was  a  man  of  extraor- 
dinary coolness  and  quickness,  Shepherd  must  have  fallen  without 
alarming  his  comrades.  Infantry  were  all  around  and  about  him. 
It  looked  to  him  strange  afterwards,  but  he  had  not  even  heard 
the  fall  of  a  footstep  in  the  bushes  or  the  breaking  of  a  twig 
among  the  undergrowth.  All  he  understood  then  was  the  rising 
up  of  a  tall  form  close  to  his  right  stirrup,  the  leveling  of  a 
gun  barrel,  and  the  short,  sententious  word  "Surrender!"  As 
still  as  the  creeping  had  been,  it  was  yet  no  match  for 
Shepherd's  splendid  presence  of  mind.  He  threw  himself 
forward  on  his  horse,  shot  the  dismounted  trooper  in  the  breast 
as  he  turned,  took  the  fire  of  all  who  saw  that  the  game  was  up, 
and  then  at  a  long,  swinging  gallop  rushed  away  to  alarm  his 
comrades.  That  night  saw  a  fight  the  whole  war  failed  to 
surpass  with  any  stubborn  combat.  Especially  to  take  a  hand 
against  Quantreil  and  help  drive  him  to  the  wall,  Major 


118  NOTED  GUEREILLAS,  OH 

Hubbard,  of  the  Sixth  Missouri  Federal  Cavalry,  came  up  from 
Clinton  county.  He  was  one  of  the  best  fighters  the  militia 
produced.  He  was  not  afraid  to  charge ;  he  could  stand  up 
square  and  take  and  give,  man  for  man ;  he  saw  only  the  soldier 
in  the  Guerrilla ;  he  meant  to  get  on  Quantrell's  track  and  keep 
on  it  until  he  found  him. 

As  he  rode  up  gaily  from  the  south  some  one  met  him  north 
of  Harrisonville — some  one  who  knew  of  the  rifle  pits — and  de- 
scribed accurately  the  whole  lay  of  the  land.  Cavalry  could 
not  operate  against  them,  the  spy  said,  but  infantry  might. 
They  were  now  held  by  about  fifty  Guerrillas.  This  was  the 
substance  of  the  report  Hubbard  heard  some  few  miles  from  the 
ambuscade,  and  he  began  to  make  ready  at  once  to  carry  it  by 
assault.  Failing  to  silence  the  single  picquet  on  guard  in  front 
of  him,  he  dashed  ahead,  firing  fiercely  when  he  reached  the 
range.  Gregg  did  not  return  it  until  he  was  completely  en- 
veloped. Ignorant  of  the  enemy's  number,  he  cared  not  for 
further  enlightenment.  It  was  first  fight,  and  fight,  and  fight. 
When  the  moon  went  down  the  fight  was  still  raging.  There 
could  be  no  maneuvering.  Inside  the  rifle-pits  were  the  Gueril- 
las ;  outside  the  militia.  All  were  bent  on  killing.  Gregg's 
men  spoke  very  little ;  the  Federals  scarcely  any  more.  Now 
and  then  a  fierce  yell  would  usher  in  a  savage  rush,  and  once 
or  twice  a  bugle  sounded.  Gregg  held  on.  One  charge  reached 
even  to  his  parapets,  if  such  the  earth  could  be  called  piled  in 
front  of  the  trenches,  but  it  found  no  lodgment.  The  beating 
of  a  furious  revolver  rain  full  in  their  faces  drove  the  militia 
back.  They  seemed  not  to  care  for  the  horses ;  if  they  knew 
anything  about  them  they  did  not  molest  them.  Hubbard  was 
also  a  tenacious  fighter,  as  well  as  a  dashing  one.  He  held  on 
to  that  wild  night's  work  for  three  mortal  hours,  charging  every 
twenty  minutes  and  encouraging  his  men  by  voice  and  example. 
At  last  he  hauled  off  and  mounted,  made  a  detour  around 
that  vengeful  spot  hidden  as  a  sinister  thing  in  mid  highway, 
and  hurried  onward  to  Kansas  City,  leaving  his  dead,  fifty-two 
in  all,  to  be  buried  by  the  citizens,  and  his  wounded  in  every 
house  for  a  dozen  miles.  Gregg's  wounded  were  only  eight, 
thanks  to  the  excellent  cover  Todd  had  provided,  and  killed, 
none  at  all. 

These  two  blows,  together  with  a  sharp  skirmish  Quantrell 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER 

had  with  Burris  further  down  in  Cass  county  massed  the  de- 
tached commands  in  pursuit  of  him  and  united  them  as  a  single 
column  for  his  destruction.  Calling  in  every  outlying  scout  or 
squad  in  return  and  getting  well  together,  Quantrell  fell  back 
first  to  Big  Blue,  fighting.  The  chase  was  a  long  and  a  stern 
one.  Giving  Todd  ten  men,  Haller  ten,  Gregg  ten,  Scott  ten, 
and  keeping  ten  himself,  he  made  the  hunt  for  him  one  long 
ambuscade  of  two  hundred  miles.  Tortuous,  but  terrible ;  at 
every  ford  a  fight ;  in  every  hollow  a  barricade ;  on  every  hill- 
top a  volley.  From  Big  Blue  to  Little  Blue  they  chased  this 
lank,  bronzed  fox  of  the  foray,  bugles  blowing  all  about  him, 
and  the  wild  hallooing  of  the  huntsmen  coming  ever  on  and  on. 
Away  again  from  the  Little  Blue  to  King's,  from  King's  to  Dr. 
Noland's  the  five  detachments  fighting  and  falling  back  as  the 
pendulum  used  to  swing  to  and  fro  in  the  ancient  clocks.  Tired, 
but  still  determined,  Hubbard  spoke  up  at  last  toPeabody: 
"Who  is  this  Quantrell  you  hunt  so  hard?  man  or  devil,  he 
fights  like  a  wild  beast."  "And  he  is;  you  found  one  of  his 
'•  lairs,  it  seems." 

Doubling  back  on  the  Little  Blue  lower  down,  and  leading 
the  pursuing  column  only  by  an  hour,  Quantrell — hungry  from 
much  fasting  and  weary  at  that — found  twenty-three  militia  at 
Crenshaw's  bridge  to  dispute  it.  Twenty-three !  It  was  as 
though  a  butcher's  hand  opened  all  of  its  bloody  fingers  at 
once,  fan-fashion,  to  brush  from  a  slaughtered  bullock  a  bunch 
of  buzzing  blue  flies.  Sim  Whitsett  and  Cole  Younger  led  the 
advance  when  the  bridge  was  reached,  and  they  stopped  not  to 
count  any  numbers  or  any  costs.  On  one  side  the  river  was 
flight  and  fight;  on  the  other  rations  and  rest.  "Altogether, 
boys,"  the  great  voice  of  Younger  roared  out,  and  the  bridge 
shook,  and  the  white  splinters  flew  up  from  the  planks  and  the 
timbers  there.  It  is  not  believed  the  militia  knew  their  men. 
The  citizens  said  they  seemed  appalled  at  a  rush  that  did  not 
even  look  up  when  their  volley  was  fired,  and  broke  for  shelter 
in  every  direction  without  reloading.  Two  escaped,  and  singu- 
larly. One,  a  mere  youth,  had  done  Whitsett  a  good  turn  once, 
and  Whitsett  saved  him.  The  other,  known  to  Cole  Younger  in 
past  days  as  a  clever  neighbor,  reminded  him  of  a  favor  con- 
ferred— the  curing  of  a  valuable  horse  and  charging  nothing — 
and  Younger  put  upon  him  the  sign  of  the  Passover. 


120  NOTED  (1UEERILLAS,  OR 

Down  went  the  bridge  after  Quantrell  was  east  of  the  Blue, 
and  up  came  that  long  Federal  gallop  that  would  not  tire. 
Food  and  rest  came  to  hunted  and  hunters  alike,  but  the  race 
was  done.  Quantrell  left  for  the  Lake  Hills  slowly  the  next 
morning,  and  the  Federals  on  a  raft  got  over  during  the  day 
and  followed  on.  The  carbines  rang — the  revolvers  answered ; 
they  were  at  it  again,  fifty  against  a  thousand.  From  the  Lake 
Hills  to  Johnson  county  the  drive  grew  rapid.  Now  Quantrell, 
now  Haller,  now  Scott,  now  Gregg,  now  Todd — if  any  man  fell 
out  of  the  ranks  he  was  shot  out.  No  rest  in  Johnson  county ; 
none  in  Lafayette  county.  Halted  at  Warren's  for  a  bit  or  two 
of  bread  and  corn,  Quantrell  was  driven  away ;  at  Graves'  it 
was  worse ;  at  Wellington  they  gave  him  no  rest ;  down  towards 
Lexington  he  hadn't  even  time  to  water ;  out  south  from  Lex- 
ington six  miles  it  took  all  five  of  the  chosen  fighters  to  keep 
the  chase  a  stern  one ;  and  back  again  to  Wellington  and  west 
by  a  forced  night  march,  he  gained  some  hours  for  a  needed 
bivouac. 

Day  had  just  broken  over  a  brief  bivouac  and  the  men  were 
astir  when  some  friendly  citizen  brought  news  to  Quantrell  of  a 
reconnoitering  party  occupying  Wellington.  They  were  militia 
but  not  connected  in  any  manner  with  the  column  in  pursuit. 
They  might  be  cut  to  pieces.  To  this  hour  it  is  not  clearly 
known  what  business  they  had  in  Wellington.  Numbering 
seventy-five,  unacquainted  with  the  country,  ostensibly  aimless 
and  objectless,  they  poked  about  the  town  professing  to  be  after 
Quantrell,  and  they  found  him.  He  tried  to  get  between  them 
and  Lexington,  but  they  were  too  quick  for  that.  As  he 
reached  the  main  road  the  rear  guard  was  just  disappearing; 
then  came  the  charge  and  the  rout.  One  volley  only  and  a 
great  rush.  Blood  and  bottom  told  in  that  furious  three  mile 
race.  Quantrell's  own  shooting  was  superb ;  six  saddles  were 
emptied  by  him,  five  by  Blunt,  four  by  Haller,  four  by  Younger, 
three  by  Poole,  three  by  Fletch  Taylor,  three  by  George  Shep- 
herd, and  two  each  by  Todd,  Gregg,  Whitsett,  Coger,  Hicks 
George,  Scott,  and  six  or  eight  others  who  were  riding  swift, 
fresh  horses.  Of  the  seventy-five  ten  alone  got  back  unhurt.  It 
was  a  blow  that  carried  terror  and  horror  with  it.  People  talked 
of  it  as  they  talked  of  something  sent  by  God — some  pestilence, 
or  drouth,  or  famine.  Dead  men  along  the  road  were  gathered  up 


1 HE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         12 J 

for  a  week,  and  for  years  belated  travelers  have  told  how,  when  the 
night  turns,  there  might  be  heard  again  the  shots,  the  shrieks, 
the  infernal  din  and  the  swift  rush  of  insatiate  horsemen  that 
stopped  for  no  prayer  and  touched  no  bridle  rein  until  for  the 
want  of  fuel  the  fire  had  burned  itself  out. 

Too  late  either  to*  pity  or  save  the  slaughtered  Wellington 
detachment,  the  pursuing  Federal  column  might  avenge  them 
perhaps  and  put  to  the  credit  side  a  propitiation  or  two  worthy 
the  comradeship  of  soldiers.  The  dust  was  still  heavy  upon  the 
garments  of  the  Guerrillas  and  the  foam  white  upon  their  horses, 
when  Peabody's  pursuit  began  to  thunder  again  in  the  rear  of 
Quantrell.  It  pushed  him  back  again  through  Wellington; 
back  across  the  Sni,  whose  bridge  he  burned ;  back  through  all 
the  open  country  beyond,  and  still  backward  and  backward. 
For  five  days  and  five  nights  Quantrell  had  been  running  and 
fighting.  Out  of  fifty  men,  twenty-two  had  been  hurt — some 
badly  and  some  not  so  badly.  They  staid,  however;  they  reeled 
in  the  saddle  every  now  and  then,  but  they  fought.  Heroic 
Scott,  with  a  minie  ball  through  his  thigh,  from  the  Wellington 
rout,  kept  his  squad  of  ten  intact  and  led  them  to  the  end. 

At  Pink  Hill  it  was  no  better.  In  his  front,  near  the  Black- 
water  ford  of  the  Sni,  Burris  was  waiting  for  Quantrell.  Todd 
dashed  at  the  left  flank  of  this  not  over-bold  command  and  made 
it  huddle,  and  then  away  again  southwest  for  Big  Creek,  Dave 
Poole  leading  the  rear  and  Cole  Younger  the  advance.  On  the 
divide,  between  Big  Creek  and  the  Sni,  the  Guerrillas  were 
hemmed  at  last.  Quick  work  had  to  be  done.  If  the  two  mill- 
stones were  permitted  to  come  together,  they  would  be  ground 
to  powder.  Quantrell  massed  his  men  behind  the  divide — a 
bold  ridge  that  rose  up  abruptly  from  an  otherwise  comparatively 
level  country,  and  made  them  a  little  speech:  "Men/'  he  said, 
"you  see  how  it  is  as  plainly  as  I  do.  It  is  my  business  to  get 
you  out  of  this,  and  I  will  get  you  out.  Just  over  the  ridge 
yonder — you  can  see  them  from  the  summit — five  hundred  Fed- 
erals, your  old  friends  under  Burris,  are  ccming  up  to  hold  you 
in  check  until  Peabody's  column  arrives.  Then,  instead  of  ten 
to  one,  there  will  be  thirty  to  one.  We  shall  strike  Burris  first, 
and  trust  to  luck." 

A  man  of  very  few  words  and  very  few  figures  of  speech, 
Quantrell  arrayed  the  Guerrillas  just  as  he  wanted  them,  and 


122  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

waited  behind  the  ridge.  He  kept  Todd  near  to  him,  and  in  the 
rear  he  stationed  Haller  and  Scott.  Gregg  was  to  watch  the 
centre  of  the  line,  for  he  meant  to  charge  in  line  with  double- 
intervals,  thus  giving  free  play  to  the  revolvers. 

Burris  was  probably  two  hundred  yards  below  the  summit  of 
the  divide  w hen  Quantrell  crowned  its  crest  at  a  walk  and  broke 
at  sight  of  him  into  a  gallop.  The  gallop,  in  an  instant,  was  a 
fierce  run,  the  whole  front  of  the  charging  line  wrapping  itself 
in  a  powder  cloud  from  its  incessant  pistol  vollies.  Abreast  of 
one  another,  yet  preserving  perfect  intervals,  Quantrell,  Gregg, 
Todd,  Younger,  Tom  Talley,  Poole,  Hicks  George,  Sim  Whit- 
sett,  Haller,  Ki  Harrison,  and  John  Coger,  struck  the  Federal 
line  about  the  same  time,  and  such  an  onset  meant  the  riving  of 
its  ranks  as  a  hurricane  rives  the  timber.  Then  the  strange 
spectacle  was  presented  of  a  regiment  cut  half  in  two,  both 
ends  bloody,  and  between  them  something  that  looked  like  a 
lurid  wedge  driven  there  by  a  power  the  dense  smoke  made  in- 
visible. 

.But  Quantrell  did  not  tarry.  Harrison  was  badly  wounded 
in  the  charge,  Hicks  George  was  wounded,  George  Shep- 
herd was  shot,  Quantrell  himself  was  wounded  again, 
Todd  had  blood  drawn  from  him  twice,  Poole  was  shot  and 
Scriviner  was  killed.  To  the  rear  the  nearest  prairie  was  black 
with  pursuing  Federals.  Night  came  on,  and  Burris  followed 
after,  but  far  behind.  Reaching  the  heavy  timber  of  Big  Creek 
with  scarcely  an  unwounded  man  in  his  command,  Quantrell 
disbanded  for  a  little  rest  and  medical  attention.  By  twos  and 
threes,  in  squads,  singly,  the  Guerrillas  went  their  way  as  phan- 
toms. There — alert,  stalwart,  armed,  soldierly  in  every  move- 
ment— they  seemed  under  the  trees  and  in  the  uncertain  light  a 
host.  Look  again !  The  trees  are  there,  the  dark  waters  flow 
rapidly  under  them  and  away,  the  watch  fires  burn  low,  no  forms 
flit  there,  the  silence  is  supreme,  were  they  ever  real?  Had 
they  ever  flesh  and  blood  and  bone  and  sinew?  Spectres,  did 
they  not  go  back  into  the  unknown  ?  Illusions,  why  trouble  the 
imagination  with  a  mirage  that  may  never  come  again? 

A  great  roaring  laugh  awoke  the  echoes  of  Big  Creek  the 
morning  after  the  night  of  the  disbandment,  and  Hubbard 
bantered  Peabody :  "Here  we  are,  Colonel,  without  a  trail  or 
a  track.  Has  this  man  Quantrell  of  yours  gone  into  the  earth 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  123 

OP  into  the  water?  Where  is  his  hole ;  and  has  he  pulled  his 
hole  in  after  him?  Our  work,  it  appears  to  me,  is  pretty  well 
over."  "His  old  trick,*'  replied  Peabody,  curtly,  "he  has  dis- 
banded." "And  so  should  we,"  rejoined  Hubbard,  in  evident 
disgust  at  the  result  of  the  whole  campaign.  "Any  one 
thousand  men  that  can't  take  fifty  ain't  worth  the  pipe  clay  that 
rubs  up  their  sabre-belts.  Your  Quantrell  is  either  a  myth  or 
a  devil— which?"  "He  is  both,"  and  Peabody  and  Hubbard 
shook  hands  and  parted. 

Ostensibly  unorganized,  the  Guerrillas  notwithstanding  failed 
to  be  quiet.  Indeed  the  wild  life  they  had  deliberately 
chosen  made  successive  days  of  peace  absolutely  impossible. 
In  the  old  fashion — hammer  and  tongs — they  were  at  it  again 
in  less  than  forty-eight  hours.  Todd  struck  an  isolated  scout 
on  the  main  Harrisonville  and  Warrensburg  road  and  charged 
it  as  he  always  charged.  It  was  a  running  fight  of  eight  miles, 
wherein  no  quarter  was  given  and  not  much  asked.  Twenty- 
two  Federals  fell  along  the  roadside  and  the  balance  of  the- 
detachment,  eighteen,  reached  Harrisonville  through  sheer  hard 
running. 

Charley  or  Ki  Harrison,  a  tall,  swarthy,  extremely  silent, 
uncommunicative  man  lived  in  Denver  City  when  the  war  com- 
menced, and  went  South  early.  Colorado  bred  a  set  of  grave, 
inflexible  borderers,  who — whether  Federal  or  Confederate — •- 
left  their  hand  writing  pretty  legibly  written  whenever  or 
wherever  they  stood  in  battle.  Harrison  practiced  that  kind  of 
revolver  shooting  which  consisted  of  instantaneous  execution. 
Between-  the  act  of  drawing  and  the  act  of  firing,  if  it  took 
longer  than  two  seconds,  he  argued  that  no  man  excelled  anoth- 
er as  an  expert.  For  hours  and  hours  he  worked  at  the  theory. 
Erecting  at  twenty  paces  the  outlines  of  a  human  figure,  and 
indicating  by  smaller  divisions  the  eyes,  the  mouth,  the  fore- 
head, the  heart,  the  bowels,  and  the  lungs,  he  would  labor  with 
something  of  a  monomania  to  excel  all  in  the  rapidity  of  the 
process  by  which  he  got  his  revolver  from  its  scabbard,  and 
the  accuracy  of  its  fire  afterwards.  Carroll  Wood  came  into 
Missouri  with  Harrison.  He  too  had  been  both  a  mountaineer 
and  a  plainsman.  So,  also,  did  Captain  William  West,  that 
man  called  by  Richardson,  of  the  mournful  McFarland  memory, 
"the  swarthy  Adonis  of  the  Plains."  Each  of  these  men  had 


124  NOTED  aUEBBILLAS,  OR 

Cither  a  stern  or  tragical  beginning.  Wood,  standing  at  the 
back  of  some  friends  fighting  in  the  streets  of  Denver,  had  re- 
flected upon  him  many  of  the  more  sombre  lights  of  the  quarrel, 
and  felt  to  lay  hands  upon  him  that  most  monstrous  of  all 
organizations  of  brutality  and  cowardice,  a  western  Vigilance 
Committee.  It  was  ten  against  two  hundred.  Word  went 
instantly  to  John  C.  Moore,  then  editor,  ex-mayor  and  lawyer, 
that  the  toils  had  closed  over  Carroll.  He  neither  asked  the 
right  nor  the  wrong  of  the  arrest-^he  simply  saw  the  danger ;  he 
•did  not  discuss  the  philosophy  or  the  morality  of  the  proceeding 
— he  only  informed  himself  that  they  had  his  friend.  As  he 
'hurried  he  buckled  on  a  revolver.  Wood's  ten  comrades  were 
about  him  and  nearest  to  him,  but  the  peril  was  imminent.  He 
was  known  to  be  a  rebel,  "dead  game,"  not  over  given  to  take 
a  slight  or  a  taunt,  and  the  Vigilantes  hated  him ;  the  hour  had 
come  to  cast  up  and  count  the  score  and  to  settle  it.  "Hang 
him!"  two  hundred  bass  throats  roared  out — that  volumned, 
ferocious  roar  which  has  in  it  the  malignity  of  the  faction  and 
the  selfishness  of  the  born  coward  on  top  through  circumstances 
and  numbers.  Moore  was  not  a  second  too  soon.  The  rope 
was  being  knotted  and  noosed.  Woo4,  just  a  little  pale  from 
the  swift  blood  that  flowed  so  fiercely,  lifted  up  his  undaunted 
eyes  to  all  the  hungry  faces  in  front  of  him  and  gazed  thereon, 
steadily  but  superciliously.  Splendid  scorn  might  be  all  that 
death  intended  to  leave  to  him  at  the  finish.  Moore  put  himself 
before  the  prisoner  and  the  wild  beasts  showing  their  teeth  and 
licking  their  lips,  and  spoke  to  them.  That  he  spoke  nobly  and 
eloquently  it  is  not  necessary  to  assert.  That  he  spoke  practi- 
cally and  adroitly  the  sequel  made  more  than  manifest.  Best  of 
all,  however,  it  was  the  peroration  which  exhibited  the  man. 
"I  have  now  done,"  he  said  quietly  in  conclusion,  "what  the 
duty  of  the  advocate  required  of  me  ;  it  is  the  duty  of  the  friend 
which  I  do  next."  As  he  finished  he  came  down  from  the 
stand  and  placed  himself  alongside  of  Wood,  his  revolver 
in  readiness  and  his  resolution  taken.  It  is  enough  to  know 
that  there  was  no  hanging.  Wood  lives  to-day,  a  factor  in  the 
great  peaceful  body  of  thriving  citizens,  the  past  a  memory  that 
cannot  die,  and  his  acts  therein  fashioned  of  soldierly  episodes 
from  Lexington,  1861,  to  Newtonia,  1864. 

West  came  to  Gen.  Jeff.  Thompson  scarred  from  a  bowie-knife 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  125 

duel  that  had  left  him  little  better  than  dead.  On  the  plains  with 
a  gentleman  named  Tutt,  from  St.  Louis,  a  dispute  commenced 
between  them  which  ended  in  a  challenge  from  West.  Tutt  ac- 
cepted, choosing  bowie-knives.  The  arena  was  a  circle  with  a 
diameter  of  twenty  feet,  the  combatants  stripping  to  the  waist. 
Each  man  was  an  athlete.  Tutt  cut  his  antagonist  seventeen, 
times,  the  last  one  being  the  worst  one,  getting  in  return  only  a 
few  slashes  that  did  not  go  to  the  hollow.  Die,  repeated  the 
doctors  in  indignation  at  a  question  so  clearly  out  of  order — of 
course  West  would  die.  But  he  didn't.  Nay,  more,  the  man 
got  better,  and  better,  and  finally  rode  away  southward  toward 
where  Jeff.  Thompson  was  writing  impossible  proclamations  and  , 
paddling  improbable  canoes.  Swarthy,  splendidly  formed,  a 
horseman  who  rode  like  a  swan  swims,  long-haired  like  Absalom, 
and  just  as  fated,  the  end  came  speedily.  Tarrying  late  one 
afternoon  beyond  the  picquets,  and  riding  homeward  under  the 
moon,  the  soldier  who  halted  him  was  furiously  charged.  West 
went  at  him  in  sheer  wantonness  no  doubt,  but  the  sentinal  gave 
him  his  death  wound.  As  the  tide  turned,  and  the  night  had 
fallen,  a  perfect  peace  came  upon  the  pallid  man,  lying  just  this, 
side  the  wonderful  river.  Not  a  white  dimple  stirred  among  the 
corn ;  not  a  low  ripple  shivered  through  the  leaves  ;  flooded  with 
the  moonlight,  even  the  cattle  slept ;  the  very  air  seemed  as  if 
it  had  no  breath  of  earth  to  stain  it.  "West!"  something 
called.  Moore,  who  sat  beside  the  dying  man,  heard  no  word ; 
McDowell,  who  held  the  weak  hand,  knew  no  whisper  in  the 
room.  "West!"  "Here,"  and  the  pallid  face  lit  up  like  a  sun^ 
beam  had  touched  it,  and  the  perfect  form  lifted  itself  just  a  lit- 
tle: "Who  called?  Here,  Colonel,  and  ready  for  duty!"  Hush! 
An  angel  might  have  been  by  the  dead  soldier.  In  this  world 
there  are  touching  illusions  that  perhaps  in  the  other  are  sub- 
lime realities,  and  following  the  angel  call  he  had  gone  where 
the  snowy  blossoms  never  wither  on  the  everlasting  hills,  and 
the  autumn  never  braids  its  scarlet  fringing  through  the  green  of 
eternal  summers. 

Harrison,  on  a  larger  scale,  meant  to  try  that  rigid  revolver 
practice  of  his.  Having  forty  men  of  his  own,  and  being  rein- 
forced by  twenty  men  more  under  Lieutenant  William  Haller, 
he  rode  down  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sibley,  nearly  on  the  line 
between  Jackson  and  Lafayette  counties.  Richard  Chiles  joined 


126  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

him  with  ten  men  more,  brother  of  that  Kit  Chiles  who  had 
fallen  in  the  front  of  Quantrell's  splendid  charge  at  Independ- 
ence, and  who  in  surviving  his  brother  had  received  fate's  sim- 
ple lease  to  fight  a  little  longer.  Either  in  combat  was  a  lion. 
Chiles  led  the  assault  and  was  shot  down.  Two  hundred  Fed- 
erals in  the  houses  of  the  town  held  their  own  and  more,  for 
they  repulsed  five  separate  and  distinct  attacks,  and  forced  Har- 
rison at  last  to  forego  the  ugly  job  of  getting  them  out.  As  he 
fell  back  he  counted  the  costs.  Six  men  were  dead  and  thirty- 
seven  wounded — a  forbidding  aggregate.  Revolver  practice 
against  brick  walls  amounted  to  naught.  It  was  the  old  les- 
son, bought  by  Harrison  for  a  good  round  price,  that  hard  fight- 
ing is  not  always  hard  sense.  As  a  Guerrilla,  he  figured  no 
more  in  the  history  of  the  border,  but  over  his  last  days  there  is 
even  yet,  as  they  are  recalled,  something  of  the  savage  light  of  a 
massacre. 

Shelby  was  the  great  banyan-tree,  metaphorically  speaking, 
of  the  Guerrillas.  They  sat  under  the  protecting  shade  of  his 
constantly  expanding  reputation,  and  were  content.  No  evil 
after-things  followed  them  there.  No  sleuth-hound  conscription 
put  its  nose  upon  the  track  that  led  to  the  camp  of  the  Iron 
Brigade.  No  department  oflacials,  or  district  officials  examined 
into  the  bloody  annals  of  these  migratory  people,  going  South 
in  winter  and  North  when  the  spring  came.  In  addition, 
Shelby  was  their  great  high  priest.  They  prayed  to  him,  con- 
fessed to  him,  remembered  him  often  in  wills  and  testaments, 
furnished  him  spies  on  the  eve  of  operations  and  scouts  in  their 
consummations,  helped  his  flanks  in  the  raiding  season,  made 
Missouri  familiar  to  him  as  Arkansas,  and  piloted  the  way  to 
many  a  crushing  overthrow  as  the  pilot-fishes  pilot  the  sharks  to 
many  a  stricken  squadron. 

Captain  Harrison  believed  he  could  do  some  excellent  service 
for  the  Confederacy  in  Colorado.  He  believed  that  he  could 
recruit  at  least  a  regiment  of  Colorado  Guerrillas  who  would  in- 
habit the  plains,  live  like  the  Indians,  destroy  supply  trains, 
make  the  overland  routes  to  California  impracticable,  eliminate 
from  the  military  economy  of  western  occupation  the  frontier 
post  system,  enlist  the  savages  to  fight  against  the  United  States, 
and  break  the  only  link  that  bound  California  and  the  Union 
together.  This  was  Harrison's  plan.  It  was  bold  but  not  feas- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  127 

ible,  and  Shelby  told  him  so.  He  pleaded  jusl  the  same,  how- 
ever, to  be  permitted  to  try,  and  Shelby  finally  prevailed  upon 
Hindman  to  grant  him  the  authority.  That  Colorado  carte 
Uanchu  was  his  death  warrant.  Harrison  reached  the  territory 
of  the  Osage  Indians  with  forty-five  men  and  entered  it 
at  a  rush.  His  object  was  to  waste  no  useless  time  in  fighting 
there,  nor  anywhere  until  the  hour  of  opportunity.  Assailed  in 
front  and  rear,  hemmed  in,  overwhelmed,  hunted  on  all  sides, 
driven  from  position  to  position,  forty-four  of  the  forty-six  men 
died  at  bay,  selling  dearly  all  that  was  left  to  each — his  life. 
Two  alone  escaped.  One  of  these,  Colonel  Warner  Lewis,  lives 
to  day  in  Fulton,  Callaway  county,  and  the  other — Clark  Hock- 
ensmith — fell  fighting  like  the  hero  he  was  over  QuantrelPs 
wounded  body  in  Kentucky.  Lewis  left  Harrison  dying  as  the 
Indian  always  dies — killing  to  the  last.  Behind  his  dead  horse, 
both  legs  broken,  a  jaw  shattered,  and  four  fingers  of  his  left  hand 
gone,  he  shot  while  a  load  was  left  in  a  single  pistol.  There 
came  finally  a  rush  and  a  volley — then  a  great  stillness.  Harri- 
son had  been  the  last  to  go,  and  it  had  taken  him  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  to  die.  This  side  the  judgment  day  no  one  will  ever 
know  what  heroic  things  were  done  on  that  last  march  through 
fire  and  savages — a  border  Calvary  of  fifteen  hours.  Perhaps 
some  touching  talk  was  had.  Husbands  were  there  who  were 
never  to  see  their  wives  any  more.  Fathers  were  there  who  in 
the  dreams  of  the  past  night's  bivouac  had  heard  the  prattle  of 
blue-eyed  children.  It  was  terrible  to  die  so,  but  they  died. 
Six  months  later,  as  a  strong  Confederate  column  marched 
through  where  they  fell,  more  than  twenty  bodies,  shriveled  by 
wind  and  weather,  claimed  even  then  the  last  sad  rites  of  com- 
radeship. 


CHAPTER     X. 

THE    MARCH   SOUTH. 

WINTER  had  come  and  some  snow  had  fallen.  There  were 
no  longer  any  more  leaves ;  nature  had  nothing  more  to 
do  with  the  ambuscades.  Some  bitter  nights,  as  a  foretaste  of 
bitterer  nishts  to  follow,  reminded  Quantrell  that  it  was  time  to 
migrate.  Most  of  the  wounded  men  were  well  again.  All  of  the 
dismounted  had  found  serviceable  horses.  On  the  twenty-second 
of  October,  1862,  a  quiet  muster  on  the  banks  of  the  Little 
Blue  revealed  at  inspection  nearly  all  of  the  old  faces  and  forms, 
with  a  sprinkling  here  and  there  of  new  ones.  Some  few,  too 
hard  hit  in  that  pitiless  pursuit  to  ride  so  early,  were  still 
awaiting  the  balm  of  a  much  bedeviled  Gilead.  Quantrell 
counted  them  two  by  two  as  the  Guerrillas  Pressed  up  in  line, 
and  front  rank  and  rear  raak  there  were  just  seventy-eight. 
On  the  morrow  they  were  moving  southward.  That  old  road 
running  between  Harrisonville  and  Warrensburg  was  always  to 
the  Guerrillas  a  road  of  fire,  and  here  again  on  their  march 
toward  Arkansas,  and  eight  miles  east  of  Harrisonville,  did 
Todd  in  the  advance  strike  a  Federal  scout  of  thirty  militia 
cavalrymen.  They  were  Missourians  and  led  by  a  Lieutenant 
Satterlee.  To  say  Todd  is  to  say  charge.  To  associate  him 
with  something  that  will  illustrate  him,  is  to  put  torch  and 
powder  magazine  together.  It  was  the  old,  old  story.  On  one 
side  a  furious  rush,  on  the  other  panic  and  imbecile  flight. 
Emphatically  a  four  mile  race,  it  ended  with  this  for  a  score : 
Todd,  killed,  six;  Boon  Schull,  five;  Fletch.  Taylor,  three;. 
George  Shepherd,  two ;  John  Coger,  one ;  Sim.  Whitsett,  one  ; 
James  Little,  one;  George  Maddox,  one — total,  twenty;, 
wounded,  none.  Even  in  leaving,  what  sinister  farewells  these 
Guerrillas  were  taking  1 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  129 

The  second  night  out  Quantrell  stopped  over  beyond  Dayton, 
in  Cass  county,  and  ordered  a  bivouac  for  the  evening.  There 
came  to  his  camp  here  a  good-looking  man,  clad  like  a  citizen, 
who  had  business  to  transact,  and  who  knew  how  to  state  it. 
He  was  not  fat,  he  was  heavy.  He  laughed  a  great  deal,  and 
when  he  laughed  he  showed  a  perfect  set  of  faultlessly  white 
teeth.  If  that  smile  should  by  any  chance  become  preter- 
naturally  fixed,  the  mouth  that  before  it  was  winning  in  repose, 
would  certainly  become  after  it  forbidding.  He  was  young. 
An  aged  man  is  a  thinking  ruin;  this  one  did  not  appear  to 
think — he  felt  and  enjoyed.  He  was  tired  of  dodging  about  in 
the  brush,  he  said,  and  he  believed  he  would  fight  a  little. 
Here,  there  and  everywhere  the  Federals  had  hunted  him  and 
shot  at  him,  and  he  was  weary  of  so  much  persecution.  Would 
Quantrell  let  him  become  a  Guerrilla?  "Your  name?"  asked 
the  chief.  The  recruit  winced  under  the  abrupt  question  just 
the  slightest  of  an  almost  imperceptible  degree,  and  Quantrell 
saw  the  start.  Attracted  by  something  of  novelty  in  the  whole 
performance,  a  crowd  collected.  Quantrell,  without  looking  at 
the  new  comer,  appeared  yet  to  be  analyzing  him.  Suddenly 
he  spoke  up:  "I  have  seen  you  before  ;  where?"  "Nowhere." 
'•Think  again.  I  have  seen  you  in  Lawrence,  Kansas."  The 
face  was  a  murderer's  face  now,  softened  by  a  woman's  blush. 
There  came  to  it  such  a  look  of  mingled  fear,  indignation,  and 
cruel  eagerness  that  Gregg,  standing  next  to  him  and  nearest  to 
him,  laid  his  hand  on  his  revolver.  "Stop,"  said  Quantrell, 
motioning  to  Gregg,  "do  not  harm  him,  but  disarm  him." 
Two  revolvers  were  taken  from  his  person,  and  a  pocket  pistol 
— a  derringer.  While  being  searched,  the  white  teeth  shone  in 
a  smile  that  was  almost  placid.  "You  suspicion  me,"  he  said, 
so  calmly  that  his  words  sounded  as  if  spoken  under  the  vault 
of  some  echoing  dome,  "but  I  have  never  been  in  Lawrence  in 
my  life." 

Quantrell  was  lost  in  thought  again,  with  the  strange  man- 
standing  up  smiling  in  the  midst  of  all  the  band-- watching  him 
with  eyes  that  were  blue  at  times  and  grey  at  times,  and  always 
gentle.  More  wood  was  put  upon  the  bivouac  fire,  and  the 
flames  grew  ruddy.  In  their  vivid  light  the  young  man  might 
not  be  really  so  young.  He  had  also  a  thick  neck,  great 
broad  shoulders,  and  something  of  sensuality  about  the  chin. 
9 


130  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

The  back  of  his  skull  was  bulging  and  prominent.  Here  and 
there  in  his  hair  were  little  white  streaks.  Because  there  were  such 
bloom  and  color  in  his  cheeks,  one  could  not  remember  these. 
Lacking  the  consolation  of  tears,  nature  had  given  him  perfect 
health.  Quantrell  still  tried  to  make  out  that  face,  to  find  a 
name  for  that  Sphinx  in  his  front,  to  recall  some  time  or  circum- 
stance, or  place  that  made  obscure  things  clear,  and  at  last  the 
past  returned  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  swift  revealment.  "I 
have  it  all  DOW,"  he  said,  "and  you  are  a  Jayhawker.  The 
name  is  immaterial.  I  have  seen  you  at  Lawrence ;  I  have  seen 
you  at  Lane's  headquarters ;  I  have  been  a  soldier  myself  with 
you ;  we  have  done  duty  together — but  I  mean  to  hang  j^ou  this 
hour,  by  g — d!"  Unabashed-  the  threatened  man  drew  his 
breath  hard  and  strode  a  step  towards  Quantrell.  Gregg  put 
a  pistol  to  his  head:  "Keep  back.  Can't  you  talk  where  you 
are?  Do  you  mean  to  say  anything?" 

The  old  smile  again !  Could  nothing  ever  drive  away  that 
smile — nothing  ever  keep  those  white  teeth  from  shining? 
"You  ask  me  if  I  want  to  talk,  just  as  if  I  had  anything  to 
talk  about.  What  can  I  say  ?  What  must  I  do  to  prove  myself 
sincere?  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  hunted,  proscribed,  shot 
at,  bedeviled,  driven  up  and  down,  around  and  about,  until  I  am 
tired.  I  want  to  kill  somebody ;  I  want  to  know  what  sleeping 
a  sound  night's  sleep  means."  QnantrelFs  grave  voice  broke 
calmly  in:  "Bring  a  rope  I"  Blunt  brought  it.  "Make  an 
end  fast,  Sergeant."  The  end  was  made  fast  to  a  low-lying 
limb;  in  the  firelight  the  noose  expanded.  "Up  with  him, 
men."  Four  stalwart  hands  seized  him  as  a  vise.  He  did  not 
even  defend  himself.  His  flesh  beneath  their  grip  felt  soft  and 
rounded.  The  face,  although  all  the  bloom  was  there,  hard- 
ened viciously — like  the  murderer's  face  it  was.  "  So  you 
mean  to  get  rid  of  me  in  that  way?  it  is  like  you,  Quantrell.  I 
know  you,  but  you  do  not  know  me.  I  have  been  hunting  you 
for  three  long  years.  You  killed  my  brother  in  Kansas ;  you 
killed  others  there,  your  comrades.  I  did  not  know,  till  after- 
wards, what  kind  of  a  devil  we  had  around  our  very  messes — a 
devil  who  prowled  about  the  camp  fires  and  shot  soldiers  in  the 
night  that  broke  bread  with  him  in  the  day.  Can  you  guess 
what  brought  me  here?" 

The  shifting  phases  of  this  uncommon  episode  attracted  all ; 


THE  WABFAItE  OF  THE  BOEDER  131 

even  Quantrell  himself  was  interested.  The  prisoner — osten- 
sible recruit  no  longer — threw  off  all  disguise,  and  defied  those 
who  meant  to  hang  him  up.  "  You  did  well  to  disarm  me,"  he 
said,  addressing  himself  to  Gregg,  "for  I  intended  to  kill  your 
Captain.  Everything  has  been  against  me,  however.  At  the 
Tate  House  he  escaped ;  at  Clark's  it  was  no  better ;  we  had  him 
surrounded  at  Swearingen's  and  his  men  cut  him  out ;  we  ran  him 
for  two  hundred  miles  and  he  disappeared — devil  that  he  is,  or 
in  league  with  the  devil — and  now,  after  playing  my  last  card 
and  staking  everything  upon  it,  what  is  left  to  me?  A  dog's 
death  and  a  brother  unavenged.  No  matter ;  it's  luck.  Do 
your  worst."  As  he  finished  he  folded  his  arms  across  his 
breast  and  stood  stolid  as  the  huge  trees  overhead.  Some  pity 
began  visibly  to  affect  the  men.  Gregg  turned  away  and  went 
out  beyond  the  firelight.  Even  Quan trail's  face  softened,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  When  he  spoke  again  to  Blunt,  his  voice 
was  so  changed  and  harsh  that  it  was  scarcely  recognized.  "He 
is  one  of  the  worst  of  a  band  that  I  failed  to  make  a  finish  of 
before  the  war  came,  but  what  escapes  to-day  is  dragged  up  by 
the  net  to-morrow.  If  I  had  not  recognized  him  he  would  have 
killed  me.  I  do  not  hang  him  for  that,  however.  I  hang  him 
because  the  whole  race  and  breed  to  which  he  belongs  should  be 
exterminated.  Sergeant,  do  your  duty."  Blunt,  by  a  dexter- 
ous movement,  slipped  the  noose  about  the  prisoner's  neck,  and 
t'.ie  four  men  who  had  at  first  disarmed  him,  tightened  it.  To 
the  last  the  bloom  abode  with  his  cheeks.  He  did  not  pray ; 
neither  did  he  make  plaint  nor  moan.  The  fitful  firelight  flared 
up  once  and  fixed  his  outline  clear  against  the  shadowy  back- 
ground ;  a  sudden  breeze  made  the  boughs  moan  a  little ;  no 
man  spoke  a  word ;  something  like  a  huge  pendulum  oscillated 
as  though  spun  by  a  strong  hand,  quivered  once  or  twice,  and 
then,  swinging  to  and  fro  and  regularly,  stopped  forever.  Just  at 
this  moment,  three  quick,  hot  vollies  and  close  together,  rolled 
in  from  the  northern  picquet  post,  and  the  camp  was  on  its  feet. 
If  one  had  looked  then  at  the  dead  man's  face,  something  like 
a  smile  might  have  been  seen  there,  fixed  and  sinister,  and  be- 
neath it  the  white,  sharp  teeth.  James  Williams  had  accepted 
his  fate  like  a  hero.  At  mortal  feud  with  Quantrell,  and  living 
only  that  he  might  meet  him  face  to  face  in  battle,  he  had 
joined  every  regiment,  volunteered  upon  every  scout,  rode  fore- 


132  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OK 

most  in  every  raid,  and  fought  hardest  in  every  combat.  It  was 
not  to  be.  Quantrell  was  leaving  Missouri.  A  great  gulf  was 
about  to  separate  them.  One  desperate  effort  novv,  and  years 
of  toil  and  peril  at  a  single  blow  might  be  well  rewarded.  He 
struck  it  and  it  cost  him  his  life.  To  this  day  the  whole  tragic 
episode  is  sometimes  recalled  and  discussed  along  the  border. 

The  bivouac  was  rudely  broken  up.  Three  hundred  Federal 
cavalry,  crossing  QuantrelPs  trail  late  in  the  afternoon,  had  fol- 
lowed it  until  the  darkness  fell,  halted  an  hour  for  supper,  and 
then  again,  at  a  good  round  trot,  rode  straight  upon  Haller 
holding  the  rear  of  the  movement  southward.  He  fought  at 
the  outpost  half  an  hour.  Behind  huge  trees,  he  would  not  fall 
back  until  his  flanks  were  in  danger.  All  the  balance  of  the 
night  through  he  fought  them  thus,  making  six  splendid 
charges  and  holding  on  to  every  position  until  his  grasp  was 
broken  loose  by  sheer  hammering.  At  Grand  River  the  pursuit 
ended,  and  Quantrell  swooped  down  upon  Lamar,  in  Barton 
county,  where  a  Federal  garrison  held  the  court  house  and  the 
houses  nearest  to  it.  He  attacked,  but  got  worsted;  he  at- 
tacked again  and  lost  one  of  his  best  men ;  he  attacked  the 
third  time  and  made  no  better  headway.  Baffled,  finally,  and 
hurt  more  than  was  necessary  in  any  aspect  of  the  situation,  he 
abandoned  the  town  and  resumed,  unmolested,  the  road  to  the 
south.  From  Jackson  county  to  the  Arkansas  line  the  whole 
country  was  swarming  with  militia,  and  but  for  the  fact  that 
every  Guerrilla  was  clad  in  Federal  clothing,  the  march  would 
have  been  an  incessant  battle.  As  it  was  it  will  never  be 
known  how  many  isolated  Federals,  mistaking  Quantrell' s  men 
for  comrades  of  other  regiments  not  on  duty  with  them,  fell 
into  traps  that  never  gave  up  their  victims  alive.  Near  Cass- 
ville,  in  Barry  county,  twenty-two  were  killed  thus.  They 
were  coming  up  from  Cassvilie,  and  were  meeting  the  Guerrillas, 
who  were  going  south.  The  order  given  by  Quantrell  was  a 
most  simple  but  a  most  murderous  one.  By  the  side  of  each 
Federal  in  the  approaching  column  a  Guerrilla  was  to  range 
himself,  engage  him  in  conversation,  and  then,  at  a  given  sig- 
nal, blow  his  brains  out.  Quantrell  gave  the  signal  promptly, 
shooting  the  militiaman  assigned  to  him  through  the  middle  of 
the  forehead,  and  where  upon  their  horses  twenty-two  confident 
men  laughed  and  talked  in  comrade  fashion  a  second  before, 


JAMES  YOUNGER. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  133 

nothing  remained  of  the  unconscious  detachment,  literally  exter- 
minated, save  a  few  who  struggled  in  agony  upon  the  ground 
and  a  mass  of  terrified  anrj  plunging  horses.  Not  a  Guerrilla 
missed  his  mark.  It  was  as  though  a  huge  hand  had  suddenly 
opened  and  wiped  clean  out  a  column  of  figures  upon  a  black- 
board. This  minute  instinct  with  joy  and  life,  the  next  dead, 
and  their  faces  in  the  dust. 

Quantrell  found  Shelby  at  Cane  Hill,  Arkansas,  and  reported 
to  him.  Shelby  attached  the  Guerrillas  to  the  regiment  com- 
manded by  Colonel  David  Shanks,  and  busied  himself  so  much 
with  preparations  for  the  great  fight  that  was  to  come  off  at 
Prairie  Grove  that  he  saw  them  rarely  until  they  left  him  again. 

Cole  Younger  remained  in  Missouri,  and  with  him  a  formida- 
ble squad  of  the  old  Guerrillas,  who  were  not  in  a  condition  to 
ride  when  Quantrell  moved  southward.  Younger  was  ex- 
ceedingly enterprising.  He  fought  almost  daily.  He  did 
not  seem  to  be  affected  by  the  severity  of  the  weather. 
At  night  and  on  a  single  blanket  he  slept  often  in  the  snow. 
While  it  was  too  bitter  cold  for  Federal  scouting-parties  to 
leave  their  comfortable  cantonments  or  Federal  garrisons  to 
poke  their  noses  be}Tond  the  snug  surroundings  of  their  well 
furnished  barracks,  the  Guerrillas  rode  everywhere  and  waylaid 
roads,  bridges,  lines  of  couriers,  and  routes  of  travel.  Six  mail 
carriers  disappeared  in  one  week  between  Independence  and 
Kansas  City.  A  load  of  hay  to  be  safe  had  to  have  with  it  a 
company  of  cavalry.  A  messenger  bearing  an  order  required  a 
company  as  an  escort.  Quantrell  was  gone,  but  Quautrell's 
mantle  had  fallen  upon  one  worthy  to  succeed  him. 

In  a  month  after  Quantrell' s  arrival  in  Arkansas,  George  Todd 
returned  to  Jackson  county,  bringing  with  him  Fletch  Taylor, 
Boon  Schull,  James  Little,  Andy  Walker  and  James  Reed. 
Todd  and  Younger  came  together  by  that  blood-hound  instinct 
which  all  men  have  who  hunt  or  are  hunted.  Todd  had 
scarcely  made  himself  known  to  the  Guerrillas  in  Jackson 
county  before  he  hud  commenced  to  kill  militia.  A  foraging 
party  from  Independence  were  gathering  corn  from  a  field 
belonging  to  Daniel  White,  a  most  worthy  citizen  of  the  vicin- 
ity, when  Todd  and  Younger  broke  in  upon  it,  shot  five  flown  in 
the  field  and  put  the  balance  to  flight.  The  next  day,  Novem- 
ber 30,  Younger — having  with  him  Joshua  and  Job  McCockle, 


134  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

and  Thomas  Talley,  met  four  of  Jentrison's  regiment  face  to 
face  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  County  Poor  House.  Younger, 
who  had  a  most  extraordinary  voice,  called  out  loud  enough  to  be 
beard  a  mile:  "You  are  four  and  we  are  four;  stand  until  we 
come  up."  Instead  of  standing,  however,  the  Jayhawkers 
turned  about  and  dashed  off  as  rapidly  as  possible,  followed  by 
Younger  and  his  men.  Excellently  mounted,  the  race  lasted 
fully  three  miles  before  either  party  won  or  lost.  At  last  the 
Guerrillas  gained  and  kept  gaining.  Three  of  the  four  Jay- 
hawkers  were  finally  shot  from  their  saddles,  while  the  fourth 
escaped  by  superior  riding  and  superior  running. 

Younger  had  now  with  him  George  Wigginton,  John 
McCockle,  Job  McCockle,  Tom.  Talley,  Zach.  Traber,  Nathan 
Kerr,  John  Barker,  Dave  Hilton,  William  Hulse,  Dr.  Hale,  Ike 
Basham,  George  Clayton,  Joseph  Hardin  and  Oath  Hinton. 
Albert  Cunningham,  another  Guerrilla  leader  of  a  squad,  had  a 
few  men — William  Runnels,  Jasper  Rodes,  John  Hays,  Noah 
Webster,  Daniel  Williams,  Edward  Hinks  and  Sam.  Constable. 
Todd,  retaining  with  him  those  brought  up  from  Arkansas,  kept 
adding  to  them  all  who,  either  from  choice  or  necessity,  were 
forced  to  take  refuge  in  the  brush.  He  argued  that  a  man  who 
did  not  want' to  fight  and  was  forced  to  fight,  made  most  gener- 
ally a  desperate  fight  when  he  got  into  it,  Whenever  he  could 
hear  of  a  citizen  being  robbed  or  plundered  of  property,  or 
insulted  in  any  manner,  he  always  managed  to  recruit  him  into 
his  band  and  make  of  him  in  a  very  short  time  a  most  formida- 
ble Guerrilla.  . 

Todd,  never  happy  except  on  the  war  path,  suggested  to 
Younger  and  Cunningham  a  raid  into  Kansas.  West  of  Little 
Santa  Fe,  always  debatable  if  not  dangerous  ground,  thirty 
Guerrillas  met  sixty-two  Jayhawkers.  It  was  a  prairie  fight,  brief, 
bloody,  but  finished  at  a  gallop.  Todd's  tactics — the  old  yell 
and  the  old  rush — swept  everything.  A  revolver  in  each  hand, 
the  bridle  rein  in  the  teeth,  the  horses  at  a  full  run,  the  indi- 
vidual rider  firing  right  and  left — this  is  the  way  the  Guerrillas 
charged.  Such  was  their  horsemanship,  and  such  the  terrible 
accuracy  of  their  fire  that  never  in  all  the  history  of  the  war  did 
a  Federal  line,  man  for  man,  withstand  an  onset.  Two  to  one 
even  did  not  make  it  much  better,  and  with  the  exception  of  the 
Colorado  troops  Quantrell  scarcely  ever  hesitated  a  moment 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  135 

about  attacking  an  enemy  who  held  against  him  the  enormous 
odds  in  battle  of  three  and  four  to  one. 

The  sixty-two  Jayhawkers  fought  better  than  most  of  the 
militia  had  been  in  the  habit  of  fighting,  but  they  would  not 
stand  up  to  the  work  at  revolver  range.  When  Todd  charged 
them  furiously  as  soon  as  he  came  in  sight  of  them,  they  stood 
a  volley  at  a  hundred  yards  and  returned  it ;  but  not  a  closer 
grapple.  Reinforced  after  an  hour  of  running  and  fighting  by 
one  hundred  and  fifty  additional  Jayhawkers,  they  in  turn  be- 
came the  aggressors  and  drove  Todd  across  a  large  prairie  and 
into  some  heavy  timber.  It  was  while  holding  the  rear  with  six 
men  that  Cole  Younger  was  attacked  by  fifty-two  and  literally 
run  over.  Every  man  among  the  covering  party  was  wounded 
but  none  mortally.  In  the  midst  of  the  melee — bullets  coming 
like  hailstones  in  summer  weather — John  McDowell's  horse 
went  down,  the  rider  under  him  and  badly  hit.  He  cried  out  to 
Younger  for  help.  Hurt  himself,  and  almost  overwhelmed, 
Younger  dismounted,  however,  under  fire,  rescued  McDowell, 
and  brought  him  safe  back  from  the  furious  crush,  killing  as  he 
ran  for  succor  a  Federal  soldier  whose  impetuous  horse  had  car- 
ried him  beyond  Younger  and  McDowell  struggling  in  the  road 
together.  Afterwards  Younger  was  betrayed  and  by  the  man 
to  save  whose  life  he  had  risked  his  own. 

Dividing  again,  and  operating  in  different  localities,  Todd, 
Younger,  and  Cunningham  carried  the  terror  of  the  Guerrilla 
name  through  all  the  border  counties  of  Kansas  and  Missouri. 
Every  day  and  sometimes  twice  a  day  from  December  3d  to  De- 
cember 18th,  these  three  fought  some  scouting  party  or  attacked 
some  picquet  post.  At  the  crossing  of  the  Big  Blue,  on  the 
road  to  Kansas  City — the  place  where  the  former  bridge  had 
been  burnt  by  Quantrell — Todd  surprised  six  militia,  killed  them 
all,  and  then  hung  them  up  on  a  long  pole,  resting  at  either  end 
upon  forks,  just  as  hogs  are  hung  up  in  the  county  after  slaugh- 
tering time.  In  the  morning  they  were  frozen  hard  as  iron.  So 
bold,  in  fact,  did  they  become,  and  so  unsparing,  that  as  bitter 
as  the  weather  was  the  Federals  at  Kansas  City  began  to  get 
ready  to  drive  them  away  from  their  lines  of  communication. 
Three  heavy  columns  were  sent  out  to  scour  the  country.  Sur- 
prising Cunningham  in  camp  on  Big  Creek,  they  killed  a  splen- 
did soldier,  Will  Freeman,  and  drove  the  rest  of  the  Guerrillas 


136  NOTED  GUEEEILLA8,  OR 

back  into  Jackson  county  after  a  running  fight  of  twenty-seven 
miles. 

Todd,  joining  himself  quickly  to  Younger,  ambuscaded  the 
column  hunting  for  him,  and  in  a  series  of  combats  between  the 
Little  Blue  and  Kansas  City,  killed  forty-seven  of  the  pursuers 
and  captured  five  wagons  and  thirty-three  head  of  horses. 
There  was  a  lull  again  in  marching  and  counter-marching,  the 
winter  got  colder  and  colder,  and  some  deep  snows  fell.  Christ- 
mas had  come  and  the  Guerrillas  would  have  a  Christmas  frolic. 
Nothing  bolder  and  braver  exists  to-day  upon  the  records  of 
either  side  in  the  civil  war,  than  this  so-called  Christmas  frolic. 
Col.  Henry  Younger,  father  of  Coleman  Younger,  was  one 
of  the  most  respected  citizens  of  Western  Missouri.  A  stalwart 
pioneer  of  Jackson  county,  fourteen  children  were  born  to  him 
and  his  noble  wife,  a  true  Christian  woman  and  a  ver- 
itable and  blessed  mother  in  Israel.  A  politician  of  the 
old  school ;  practical  and  incorruptible ;  bold  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  opinions  and  ardent  in  their  support;  kind 
neighbor,  liberal  citizen,  and  steadfast  friend,  Colonel 
Younger  for  a  number  of  years  was  a  Judge  of  the 
County  Court  of  Jackson  county,  and  for  several  terms  a 
member  of  the  State  Legislature.  In  1858,  he  left  Jackson 
county  for  Cass,  and  dealt  largely  in  stock.  He  was  also  an  ex- 
tensive farmer,  an  enterprising  merchant,  and  the  keeper  of  one 
of  the  best  and  most  popular  livery  stables  in  the  West,  located 
in  Harrisonville,  the  county  seat  of  Cass  county.  His  blooded 
horses  were  very  superior.  He  had  two  farms  of  six  hundred 
acres  each,  that  were  in  a  high  state  of  cultivation,  and  he  gen- 
erally had  on  hand  for  speculating  purposes  ready  money  to  the 
amount  of  from  $6,000  to  $10,000. 

On  one  of  Jennison's  periodical  raids,  in  the  fall  of  1862,  he 
sacked  and  burned  Harrisonville.  Col.  Younger,  although  a 
staunch  Union  man  and  known  to  be  such,  was  made  to  lose 
heavily.  Jennison  and  his  officers — the  officers  on  all  occasions 
being  more  rapacious  than  the  privates — took  from  him  $4,000 
worth  of  buggies,  carriages  and  hacks,  and  forty  head  of  blooded 
horses,  worth  at  a  low  average  $500  apiece.  Then  the  balance 
of  his  property  that  was  perishable  and  yet  not  moveable,  was 
burned.  The  intention  also  was  to  kill  Col.  Younger,  upon  the 
principle  that  dead  men  could  tell  no  tales,  but  he  escaped  with 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  137 

difficulty  and  made  his  way  into  Independence.  Spies  were  on 
his  track.  In  that  reign  of  hate  and  frenzy  along  the  border, 
men  were  as  often  murdered  for  money  as  for  patriotism.  Jen- 
nison  was  told  that  Col.  Younger  was  rich,  and  that  he  inva- 
riably carried  with  him  large  sums  of  money.  A  plan  was 
formed  immediately  to  kill  him.  Twenty  cut-throats  were 
organized  as  a  band  under  a  Jayhawker  named  Whalley,  and  set 
to  watch  his  every  movement.  They  dogged  him  to  Independ- 
ence, from  Independence  to  Kansas  City,  and  from  Kansas  City 
down  again  into  Cass  county.  Coming  upon  him  at  last  in  an 
isolated  place,  and  within  a  few  miles  of  Harrisonville,  they 
riddled  his  body,  rifled  his  pockets,  and  left  the  corpse,  stark 
and  partially  stripped,  by  the  roadside. 

The  fire  and  torment  of  persecution  did  not  end  here.  The 
mother  and  orphan  children  were  driven  from  Harrisonville. 
She  sought  refuge  at  her  farm  in  Jackson  county,  but  the  blood- 
hounds followed  her.  There  was  scarcely  a  day  but  what  she 
was  robbed  of  something,  until  at  last  there  was  nothing  left. 
At  the  muzzles  of  their  pistols,  finally,  and  when  all  was  gone, 
they  forced  her  to  set  fire  to  her  own  house.  She  did  it  for  the 
sake  of  her  children,  because  she  believed  that  unless  it  were 
done  her  life  would  be  taken,  and  the  homestead  to  her  was 
nothing  in  comparison  to  the  comfort  that  would  still  be  left  to 
her  if  her  life  was  spared  to  watch  over  her  little  ones.  There 
was  a  deep  snow  on  the  ground  when  they  turned  her  adrift, 
penniless,  well  nigh  garmentless,  and  certainly  homeless  and 
shelterless.  In  a  miserable  shanty  in  Lafayette  county  she 
took  up  her  abode.  Only  God  and  his  good  angels  know  how 
she  stood  up  under  it  all  and  suffered.  No  respite  came  in  any 
way.  She  was  followed  to  Lafayette  county,  her  house  sur- 
rounded, and  a  younger  son,  John,  shot  at  and  driven  to  the 
brush.  He  was  but  fourteen  years  of  age  and  the  sole  male 
support  of  the  family.  From  Lafayette  county  she  was  driven 
to  Clay  county,  suffering  privation  and  want  in  a  Christian-like 
and  uncomplaining  manner. 

The  war  closed,  and  in  the  last  stages  of  consumption,  she 
dragged  her  poor  emaciated  body  back  to  Jackson  county  to 
die.  Her  boys  came  home,  went  to  work,  and  tried  as  best 
they  could  to  forget  the  past  and  look  solely  to  the  future. 
Her  cup  of  misery  was  not  yet  full,  and  one  night  a  mob 


138  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

attacked  the  house,  broke  in  the  doors  and  windows,  and  rushed 
upon  the  dying  woman  with  drawn  revolvers,  demanding  to 
know,  upon  her  life,  where  James  and  Coleman  were.  Among  the 
mob  she  recognized  some  whose  hands  had  been  covered  with 
her  husband's  blood.  Furious  at  not  finding  James  and  Cole- 
man,  after  having  searched  for  them  everywhere  and  stolen 
whatever  about  the  scantily  furnished  house  tempted  their  beg- 
garly greed,  they  laid  hands  upon  John,  the  youngest  brother, 
carried  him  to  the  barn,  put  a  rope  about  his  neck,  threw  one 
end  over  a  joist,  and  told  him  to  say  his  prayers,  for  he  had  but 
a  little  time  to  live  unless  he  declared  instantly  where  his  broth- 
ers were.  He  defied  them  to  do  their  worst.  Three  times  they 
strung  him  up  and  three  times  he  refused  to  breathe  a  word 
that  would  reveal  the  whereabouts  of  James  or  Coleman.  The 
fourth  time  he  was  left  for  dead.  Respiration  had  perceptibly 
ceased.  The  rope  had  cut  through  the  skin  of  the  neck  and 
had  buried  itself  in  the  flesh.  It  was  half  an  hour  and  more 
before  he  recovered.  Not  yet  done  with  him,  the  mob  wounded 
him  with  sticks,  beat  him  across  the  shoulders  with  the  butts  of 
their  muskets,  tormented  him  as  only  devils  could,  and  finally 
released  him,  half  dead,  to  return  to  his  agonized  and  broken- 
hearted mother.  Soon  afterwards  Mrs.  Younger  died. 

But  this  is  a  digression  that  does  not  belong  properly  to  this 
history.  Over  the  cold  body  of  his  murdered  father,  Cole 
Younger  registered  a  vow  before  God  to  be  revenged  upon  the 
cowards  who  assassinated  him,  and  how  sternly  he  kept  to  its 
fulfillment  the  annals  of  the  border  all  too  well  can  tell. 

Eight  hundred  Federals  held  Kansas  City,  and  on  every  road 
was  a  strong  picquet  post.  The  streets  were  patrolled  constantly, 
and  ready  always  for  any  emergency,  horses,  saddled  and 
bridled,  stood  in  their  stalls.  Early  on  the  morning  of 
December  25th,  1862,  Todd  asked  Younger  if  he  wouldn't  like 
to  have  a  little  fun.  "What  kind  of  fun?"  was  the  enquiry,  in 
reply.  UA  portion  of  the  command  who  murdered  your  father 
are  in  Kansas  City,  and  if  you  say  so  we  will  go  into  the  place 
and  kill  a  few  of  them.  Younger  caught  eagerly  at  the  propo- 
sition and  commenced  at  once  to  get  ready  for  the  enterprise. 
Six  were  to  compose  the  adventurous  party— Todd,  Younger, 
Ab  Cunningham,  Fletch  Taylor,  Zach  Tracer,  and  George 
Clayton.  Clothed  in  the  uniform  of  the  Federal  cavalry,  but 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  139 

carrying  instead  of  one  pistol  four,  they  arrived  about  dusk  at 
the  picquet  post  on  the  Westport  and  Kansas  City  road.  They 
were  not  even  halted.  The  uniform  was  the  passport ;  to  get  in 
did  not  require  a  countersign.  A  little  south  of  where  the 
residence  of  Col.  Milt.  HcGee  now  stands,  the  six  Guerrillas 
dismounted  and  left  their  horses  in  charge  of  Traber,  bidding 
him  to  do  the  best  he  could  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst. 
The  city  was  royal  with  revelers.  All  the  saloons  were 
crowded  ;  in  many  places  there  was  music ;  the  patrols  had  been 
doubled  and  were  active  and  vigilant ;  comrade  clinked  glasses 
with  comrade,  and  Jayhawker  drank  fortune  to  Jayhawker. 

The  five  Guerrillas,  with  their  heavy  cavalry  overcoats  but- 
toned loosely  about  them,  boldly  walked  down  Main  street  and 
into  the  thick  of  the  Christmas  revelry.  Visiting  this  saloon  and 
that  saloon  they  sat  knee  to  knee  with  some  of  Jennison's  most 
bloodthirsty  troopers,  and  drank  confusion  over  and  over  again 
to  the  cut-throat  Quantrell  and  his  bushwhacking  crew.  Imper- 
ceptibly the  night  had  waned.  Todd  knew  several  of  the  gang  who 
had  waylaid  and  slain  Col.  Henry  Younger,  but  hunt  how  he  would 
he  could  not  find  a  single  one.  Entering  near  to  midnight  an 
ordinary  drinking  place  facing  the  public  square,  six  soldiers 
were  discovered  who  sat  at  two  tables  playing  cards — two  at  one 
table  and  four  at  another.  A  man  and  a  boy  were  behind  the 
bar.  Todd,  as  he  entered,  spoke  low  to  Younger:  "Run  to 
cover  at  last.  Five  of  the  six  men  before  you  were  in  Walley's 
crowd  that  murdered  your  father.  How  does  your  pulse  beat?" 
uLike  an  iron  man's.  I  feel  that  I  could  kill  the  whole  six 
myself."  They  went  up  to  the  bar,  called  for  whisky,  and 
invited  the  card-players  to  join  them.  If  it  was  agreeable  the 
boy  might  bring  them  their  whisky  and  the  game  could  go  on. 
"Certainly,"  said  Todd,  with  the  purring  of  a  tiger  cat  ready 
for  a  spring,  "that's  what  the  boy  is  here  for." 

Over  their  whisky  the  Guerrillas  whispered.  Todd  planned 
the  killing  as  good  now  as  accomplished.  Cunningham  and 
Clayton  were  to  saunter  carelessly  up  to  the  table  where  the 
two  players  sat,  and  Todd,  Younger  and  Taylor  up  to  the  table 
of  the  four.  The  signal  to  get  ready  was:  "Come,  boys, 
another  drink,"  and  the  signal  to  fire  was:  "Who  said  drink?" 
Cole  Younger  was  to  give  the  first  signal  in  his  deep,  resonant 
voice,  and  Todd  the  last  one.  After  the  first  each  Guerrilla 


140  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

was  to  draw  a  pistol  and  hold  it  under  the  cape  of  his  cavalry 
overcoat,  and  after  the  last  he  was  to  fire.  Younger  as  a 
special  privilege  was  accorded  the  right  to  shoot  the  sixth  man. 

As  curious  people  frequently  do  in  saloons  that  keep  card 
tables,  Cunningham  and  Clayton  walked  leisurely  along  to  where 
the  two  Jayhawkers  were,  and  took  each  a  position  to  the  right 
and  rear  of  the  players.  Todd,  Younger  and  Taylor  did  the  same 
with  three  of  the  other  four.  In  firing  they  had  looked  to  the 
danger  of  hitting  one  another  and  in  order  to  avoid  it,  they  had 
made  a  right  oblique.  In  the  end,  however,  the  fatality  would 
be  the  same,  instead  of  the  back  of  the  head  for  the  muzzle  of 
the  pistol  it  would  be  the  side. 

How  quiet  the  room  appeared!  Every  tick  of  the  clock  was 
plainly  audible.  The  bar-keeper  leant  his  head  upon  his  two 
hands  and  rested ;  the  boy  was  asleep.  Even  the  shuffling  and 
dealing  of  the  cards  seemed  subdued ;  the  necessary  conversa- 
tions of  the  game  were  brief  and  unemphatic. 

Cole  Younger 's  deep  voice  broke  suddenly  in,  filling  all  the 
room  and  sounding  so  jolly  aad  clear:  "Co??ie,  boys,  another 
drink!"  It  was  an  unctuous  voice,  full  of  Christmas  and 
brimming  glasses.  The  card  players  gave  heed  to  it  and  stayed 
long  enough  the  tide  of  the  game  to  assent  most  graciously. 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Expectant,  the  bar-keeper  lifted  up 
his  head ;  aroused,  the  sleepy  boy  forced  apart  his  heavy 
eyelids.  The  clock  was  upon  the  stroke  of  twelve.  No  one 
had  moved.  Was  the  invitation,  so  evidently  apropos,  to  be 
forgotten?  Not  if  Todd  could  help  it.  Neither  so  loud  nor  so 
caressing  in  intonation  as  Younger,  yet  his  voice — sharp,  dis- 
tinct and  penetrating — prolonged  as  it  were  the  previous  propo- 
sition and  gave  it  emphasis:  "  Who  said  drink!'9 

A  thunder  clap,  a  single  pistol  shot,  and  then  a  total  dark- 
ness. The  bar-keeper,  dumb  in  the  presence  of  death  so 
instantaneous,  shivered  and  stood  still.  The  boy  grovelled 
at  his  feet.  Todd,  cool  as  the  winter  night  without,  extin- 
guished every  light  and  stepped  upon  the  street.  "Steady!" 
he  said  to  his  men,  "and  do  not  make  haste."  So  sudden  had 
been  the  massacre,  and  so  prompt  the  movements  of  the  Guer- 
rillas, that  the  patrols  were  groping  for  a  clue  and  stumbling  in 
their  eagerness  to 'find  it.  At  every  street  corner  an  alarm  was 
beaten.  Harsh  and  high,  an  ominous  of  danger  imminent,  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         \±\ 

long  roll  sent  its  clangor  through  the  town.  Soldie  rs  poured 
out  from  every  dance  house,  rushed  from  every  saloon. 
"Guerrilla!"  "Guerrilla!"  was  the  cry;  "the  Guerrillas  are 
among  us  in  Federal  clothing  and  killing  the  Kansas  men!" 
Mixing  fearlessly  with  the  crowd,  and  swaying  to  and  fro  as  it 
swayed,  Todd  asked  and  answered  questions  as  he  pressed  ever 
on  steadily  yet  surely  towards  his  horses.  None  suspected  him 
so  far,  and  the  worst  was  over.  Presently  a  tremendous  yell 
was  heard — a  yell  plaintive  yet  full  of  fury,  menacing,  wrathful, 
accusing ;  the  bar-keeper  had  found  his  voice  at  last,  and  had 
rushed  upon  the  street,  shouting,  "Murder!"  "Murder!" 
"Murder!"  Seized  instantly  by  armed  patrols,  and  shaken 
into  continuity  of  speech,  he  understood  tolerably  well  the 
monosyllable  "Where!"  "Come  with  me  and  see."  They 
went  with  him,  and  a  great  crowd  followed.  God  help  them 
all!  Not  a  man  breathed  in  the  mass  upon  the  floor.  From 
the  tables  to  the  stove,  from  the  stove  to  the  bar,  and  from  the 
bar  to  the  door  blood  had  trickled  and  trickled,  and  flowed  and 
flowed.  One  laid  upon  another.  In  the  hands  of  two  the  cards 
were  gripped  as  in  a  vice.  Another,  looking  up  to  the  ceiling, 
seemed  to  be  asleep,  his  face  was  so  soft  and  placid.  Every 
bullet  had  brought  sudden  death,  and  in  this  the  Guerrillas 
were  merciful.  In  and  out  all  night  the  crowd  ebbed  and 
flowed,  and  still  the  dead  men  lay  as  they  fell.  Day  dawned, 
and  the  sun  came  up,  and  some  beams  like  a  benediction  fell 
upon  the  upturned  faces  and  the  pallid  lips.  Was  it  absolution? 
Who  knows?  Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  their  uniforms! 
Past  the  press  in  the  streets,  past  the  glare  and  the  glitter  of 
the  thicker  lights,  past  patrol  after  patrol,  Todd  had  won  well 
his  way  to  his  horses  when  a  black  bar  thrust  itself  suddenly 
across  his  path  and  changed  itself  instantly  into  a  line  of  soldiers. 
Some  paces  forward  a  spokesman  advanced  and  called  a  halt. 
"What  do  you  want?"  said  Todd.  "The  countersign."  "We 
have  no  countersign.  Out  for  a  lark,  it's  only  a  square  or  two 
further  that  we  desire  to  go."  "No  matter  if  it's  only  an  inch 
or  two.  Orders  are  orders."  "Fire!  and  charge,  men!"  and 
the  black  line  across  the  streets  as  a  barricade  shrivelled  up  and 
shrunk  away.  Four  did  not  move,  however,  nor  would  they 
move  ever  again  until,  feet  foremost,  their  comrades  bore  them 
to  the  burial  place.  But  the  hunt  was  hot.  Mounted  men 


142  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

were  abroad,  and  hurrying  feet  could  be  heard  in  all  directions. 
Rallying  beyond  range  and  reinforced,  the  remnant  of  the  patrol 
were  advancing  and  opening  fire.  Born  scout  and  educated 
Guerrilla,  Traber — judging  from  the  shots  and  the  shouts — 
knew  what  was  best  for  all  and  dashed  up  to  his  hard  pressed 
comrades  with  their  horses.  Thereafter  the  flight  was  a  frolic. 
The  picquet  on  the  Independence  road  was  ridden  over  and 
through,  and  the  brush  gained  beyond  without  an  effort,  and 
the  hospitable  house  of  Reuben  Harris,  where  a  roaring  fire  was 
blazing  and  a  hearty  welcome  extended  to  all. 

In  a  week  or  less,  it  began  snowing.  The  hillsides  were 
white  with  it ;  the  hollows  were  choked ;  the  briddle-paths  oblit- 
erated, and  the  broad  highways  made  smooth  as  the  surface  of 
a  frozen  stream.  After  the  snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  there  came 
a  rain,  and  then  a  furious  north  wind,  which  covered  the  earth 
with  a  sheet  of  ice.  Travel  stopped,  foraging  parties  staid  at 
home,  the  bivouacs  were  pitiless,  and  the  wild  beasts — hunting 
one  another  along  the  border — went  hungry  rather  than  stir. 
It  really  was  the  first  dead  calm  the  West  had  known  since  1856. 

Todd  established  his  camp  near  Red  Crenshaw's ;  Younger 
eight  miles  south  of  Independence,  near  the  farm  of  Martin  O. 
Jones ;  and  Cunningham  near  the  place  of  Dr.  Thornton,  on  the 
east  fork  of  the  Little  Blue  River.  Save  to  get  forage  for  their 
horses  and  food  for  themselves,  the  Guerrillas  made  no  more 
exertion  than  the  boughs  of  the  ice-bound  trees  over  their 
heads ;  they  asked  only  to  hide  themselves  and  to  be  let  alone. 
John  McDowell  was  in  Younger's  camp,  and  once  upon  a  time 
Cole  Younger  had  saved  John  McDowell's  life  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  his  own.  Certainly  he  would  not  make  an  excuse  to  see 
a  sick  wife,  to  get  into  Independence,  to  talk  to  Penick  long 
and  privately,  and  to  bite  hard  at  the  hand  which  had  succored 
him.  John  McDowell  knew  too  much  of  the  holy  meaning  of 
gratitude  for  that. 

The  ice  crust,  because  of  successive  frosts,  got  brittle  at  last 
and  added  another  misery  to  the  miseries  of  traveling.  In  order 
to  get  out  at  all,  Younger  dug  a  road  out  with  pick  and  shovel. 
The  nearest  corn  to  him  was  on  the  John  Kerr  place,  where 
Mrs.  Rucker  lived,  and  to  this  corn  the  improvised  road  was 
made  to  run.  To  hide  it  from  the  Federals,  and  to  keep  the 
strangest  of  its  features  from  the  too  curious  eyes  of  isolated 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  143 

passers  by,  Mrs.  Rucker  had  her  stock  fed  upon  the  trail.  In 
twenty-four  hours  afterwards  the  rooting  of  the  hogs,  the 
trampling  of  the  cattle,  and  the  pawing  of  the  horses,  had 
made  of  the  Guerrilla  road  a  feeding  place. 

The  nights  were  long,  the  days  were  bitter,  and  the  snow  did 
not  melt.  On  the  10th  day  of  February,  1863,  John  McDowell 
reported  his  wife  sick  and  asked  of  Younger  permission  to  visit 
her.  It  was  granted,  the  proviso  attached  to  it  being  the  order 
to  report  again  at  3  o'clock.  The  illness  of  the  man's  wife  was  a 
sham.  Instead  of  going  home,  or  even  in  the  direction  of 
home,  he  hastened  immediately  into  Independence  and  made  the 
commander  there,  Col.  Penick,  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
Younger's  camp  and  all  of  its  surroundings.  Penick  was  a  St. 
Joseph,  Missouri,  man,  commanding  a  regiment  of  militia.  The 
Guerrillas  regarded  him  as  an  officer  who  would  fight  under  any 
and  all  circumstances,  and  as  one  who,  operated  upon  by  better 
fortunes,  might  have  made  considerable  military  reputation. 
With  the  men  he  had,  try  how  he  would,  the  stream  never  could 
be  made  to  rise  higher  than  its  source.  Not  homogeneous,  pos- 
sessed of  neither  esprit  du  corps  nor  soldierly  ambition,  nature 
in  forcing  them  to  be  born  under  the  contraband  flag  of  inferi- 
ority, made  it  also  obligatory  that  they  should  join  the  pirates. 

The  echoes  of  the  desperate  adventure  of  Younger  and  Todd 
in  Kansas  City,  had  long  ago  reached  the  ears  of  Col.  Penick, 
and  he  seconded  the  traitor's  story  with  an  energy  worthy  the 
game  to  be  hunted.  Eighty  cavalrymen,  under  a  resolute  officer, 
was  ordered  instantly  out,  and  McDowell,  suspicioned  and 
closely  guarded,  was  put  at  their  head  as  a  pilot. 

Younger  had  two  houses  dug  in  the  ground,  with  a  ridge  pole 
to  each  and  rafters.  Upon  the  rafters  were  boards,  and  upon 
the  boards  straw  and  earth.  At  one  end  was  a  fire-place,  at  the 
other  a  door.  Architecture  was  nothing ;  comfort  everything. 

The  Federal  officer  dismounted  his  men  two  hundred  yards 
from  Younger's  huts  and  divided  them,  sending  forty  to  the 
south  and  forty  to  the  north ;  the  attack  was  to  be  from  two 
directions  and  simultaneously.  No  picquets  were  out;  no 
guards  kept  watch  about  the  premises.  Even  the  doors  were 
closed ;  fate  at  last,  it  seemed,  had  cut  off  the  fair  locks  of  this 
intrepid  Sampson  and  was  about  to  deliver  him  over,  helpless 
and  impotent,  into  the  hands  of  the  Philistines. 


144  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

The  Federals  on  the  south  had  approached  to  within  twenty 
yards  of  Younger's  cabins  when  a  horse  snorted  fiercely,  and 
Younger  came  to  the  door  of  one  of  them.  He  saw  the 
approaching  column  on  foot  and  mistaking  it  for  a  friendly 
column,  called  out:  "Is  that  you,  Todd?"  Perceiving  in  a 
moment,  however,  his  mistake,  he  fired  and  killed  the  lieutenant 
in  command  of  the  attacking  party  and  then  aroused  the  houses. 
Out  of  each  the  occupants  poured,  armed,  desperate,  meaning 
to  fight  but  never  to  surrender.  It  was  hot  work  despite  the 
bitter  weather.  The  Federals  on  the  north  were  well  up  to  time 
and  fired  a  deadly  volley,  killing  Ike  Basham  and  Dr.  Hale. 
Younger  had  four  dragoon  pistols  belted  about  him,  but  he 
husbanded  his  loads  and  fired  only  to  do  execution.  Turning 
westward  as  the  Federals  from  the  north  and  south  came 
together,  for  two  hundred  yards  Penick's  men  and  Younger's 
men  were  mixed  inextricably,  shooting  and  shouting.  Then 
the  Guerrillas  began  to  emerge  from  the  press  and  to  gain  a  little 
on  their  pursuers.  Encumbered  by  heavy  cavalry  overcoats, 
heavy  boots,  spurs  and  carbines,  the  militia  could  not  make 
the  speed  the  Guerrillas  did,  but  they  kept  pressing  forward  for 
all  that  and  shooting  incessantly.  Younger's  devotion  that  day 
was  simply  heroic.  In  front,  guiding  his  men,  because  he  knew 
every  foot  of  ground  in  the  neighborhood,  he  heard  Joe  Har- 
din's  voice  call  out  to  "him:  "Wait  for  me,  Cole  ;  they  have  nearly 
got  me."  In  a  moment  he  was  back  to  his  comrade  and 
covering  him  with  his  pistol.  As  he  ran  down  the  ranks  toward 
Hardin,  he  ordered  the  men  to  pull  off  their  overcoats  and 
boots,  and  trust  more  to  running  than  to  fighting.  While  Har- 
din was  working  at  his  boots  and  trying  to  get  them  off,  Younger 
killed  two  of  the  boldest  of  the  pursuers  and  took  the  rear  him- 
self, the  last  of  all  in  the  desperate  race.  Twenty  yards  further 
Hardin  was  shot  dead,  and  Oath  Hinton  needed  succor.  He 
was  down  tugging  at  his  boots  and  unable  to  get  them  off. 
Younger  halted  behind  a  tree  and  fought  fifteen  Federals  for 
several  moments,  killed  another  who  rushed  upon  him,  rescued 
Hinton  and  strode  away  after  his  comrades,  untouched  and 
undaunted.  Fifty  yards  further  Tom  Talley  was  in  trouble. 
He  had  one  boot  off  and  one  foot  in  the  leg  of  the  other,  but 
try  how  he  would  he  could  neither  get  it  on  nor  off.  He  could 
not  run,  situated  as  he  was,  and  he  had  no  knife  to  cut  the 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BORDE3  145 

leather.  He  too  called  out  to  Younger  to  wait  for  him  and 
to  stand  by  him  until  he  could  do  something  to  extricate  him- 
self. Without  hurry,  and  in  the  teeth  of  a  rattling  fusillade, 
Younger  stooped  to  Talley's  assistance,  tearing  literally  from 
his  foot  by  the  exercise  of  immense  strength  the  well-nigh  fatal 
boot,  and  encouraging  him  to  make  the  best  haste  he  could  and 
hold  to  his  pistols.  Braver  man  than  Thomas  Talley  never 
lived,  nor  cooler.  As  he  jumped  up  in  his  stocking  feet,  the 
Federals  were  in  twenty  yards,  firing  as  they  advanced,  and 
loading  their  breech-loading  guns  as  they  ran.  He  took  their 
fire  at  a  range  like  that  and  snapped  every  barrel  of  his  revolver 
in  their  faces.  Not  a  cylinder  exploded ;  wet  by  the  snow,  he 
held  in  his  hand  a  useless  pistol.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy  had 
by  this  time  outrun  the  balance  and  were  forcing  the  fighting. 
Younger  called  to  his  men  to  take  to  trees  and  drive  them  back, 
or  stand  and  die  together.  The  Guerrillas — barefooted,  hatless, 
some  of  them,  and  coatless,  rallied  instantly  and  held  their 
own.  Younger  killed  two  more  of  the  pursuers  here — five  since 
the  fight  began — and  Bad  Wigginton,  like  a  lion  at  bay,  fought 
without  cover  and  with  deadly  effect.  Here  Job  McCorkle  was 
badly  wounded,  together  with  James  Morris,  John  Coger,  and 
five  others.  George  Talley,  fighting  splendidly,  was  shot  dead, 
and  Younger  himself,  encouraging  his  men  by  voice  and 
example,  got  a  bullet  through  the  left  shoulder.  The  Federal 
advance  fell  back  to  the  main  body  and  the  main  body  fell  back 
to  their  horses.  Sick  of  a  pursuit  on  foot  which  had  cost  them 
seventeen  killed  and  wounded,  they  desired  to  mount  and  try  it 
further  on  horseback.  Instantly  ordering  a  retreat  in  turn, 
Younger  made  a  dash  for  the  Harrisonville  and  Independence 
road,  the  men  loading  their  pistols  as  they  ran,  and  making 
excellent  time  at  that.  The  snow,  fourteen  inches  deep,  was 
everywhere.  Not  four  of  the  Guerrillas  had  on  shoes  or  boots. 
The  big  road,  cut  into  blocks  and  spears  of  ice,  was  like  a  high- 
way paved  with  cutting  and  piercing  things.  Halting  just  a 
moment,  Younger  said:  "Boys,  if  we  can  muster  up  courage 
enough  to  run  down  this  road  two  hundred  yards,  on  our  naked 
feet  and  over  its  icicles,  worse  than  Indian  arrow-heads,  the 
chances  to  get  away  will  be  splendid.  Otherwise,  say  your 
prayers."  They  did  dash  down  the  road  as  though  it  were  car- 
peted, and  kept  down  it  a  quarter  of  a  mUe  to  a  field  in  the  rear 
10 


146  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

of  Mrs.  Fristoe's  house,  where  a  bridge  was,  and  where  to  one 
side  of  the  bridge  a  hog  trail  ran.  Leaping  from  this  bridge 
and  one  at  a  time  into  the  hog  path,  the  Guerrillas  followed  it 
west  three  hundred  yards,  and  then  southwest  through  the  snow 
a  mile,  Younger  leading  and  requiring  each  one  of  his  men  to 
put  their  feet  into  the  tracks  his  own  feet  had  made.  Baffled, 
but  by  no  means  beaten,  the  Federals  got  quickly  to  horse  and 
dashed  on  after  the  retreating  Guerrillas.  The  big  road  gave 
no  sign,  the  hog  path  at  the  bridge  gave  no  sign,  and  only  a 
single  footstep  could  be  discovered  leading  off  to  the  southwest 
from  the  trail  which  continued  on  to  the  west.  Dividing,  how- 
ever, into  detachments  of  ten  each,  and  keeping  within  due 
succoring  distance,  the  cavalry  began  to  scour  the  entire  neigh- 
borhood. Wherefore?  Younger's  grim  tenacity,  woodcraft, 
and  stubborn  fighting  saved  all  who  had  not  been  killed  in  open 
battle.  Three  miles  from  the  Fristoe  house  a  bluff  ran  east  and 
west  for  the  distance  of  several  miles,  perfectly  impracticable 
for  horsemen,  and  difficult  even  for  footmen  who  did  not  know 
the  easy  descending  places.  Thither  Younger  led  his  little 
band,  showing  them  how  by  the  help  of  trees  and  bushes  they 
might  get  down,  and  leaping  himself,  wounded  as  he  was, 
into  the  top  of  a  contiguous  oak  by  the  way  of  illustration. 
The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  and  the  night  was  near  when 
the  last  wounded  Guerrilla,  dragging  his  hurt  body  along  with 
difficulty,  reached  the  base  of  the  bluff  in  safety.  "Thank 
God!"  cried  Younger  in  exultation,  and  looking  away  to  the 
west  where  some  red  clouds  beamed  as  with  the  lurid  bene- 
diction of  the  sun,  "we'll  see  to-morrow  another  sunset." 
Overhead  and  firing  down  upon  him  some  Federal  cavalry 
appeared,  as  if  to  prove  his  boasting  vain,  but  they  hit  no  one 
and  could  not  descend.  There  was  not  time  to  flank  the  bluff 
at  either  end ;  the  pursuit  was  ended ;  the  Guerrillas  were  safe. 
True  to  those  instincts,  however,  which  make  plunderers  of 
battle-fields  and  robbers  of  the  dead,  the  returning  militia  put 
fire  to  the  houses  of  Mrs.  Rucker  and  Mrs.  Fristoe,  and  to  every- 
thing else  about  their  premises  that  would  burn.  Mrs.  Fristoe 
was  Younger's  grandmother,  a  most  intelligent  woman  of  great 
Christian  piety,  who  had  been  a  widow  for  twenty 
years.  Her  husband  had'  been  a  lieutenant  under  Gen.  Jackson 
at  the  battle  of  New  Orleans,  and  stood  noted  in  the  community 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         147 

in  which  he  lived  for  sterling  integrity  and  incorruptible  man- 
hoo(J.  Vandalism  deals  generally  with  such  victims ;  cowardice 
is  never  so  happy  as  when  gray  heads  are  made  to  bow. 

With  feet  torn  and  lacerated,  and  their  wounded  barely  able  to 
hobble  along,  the  Guerrillas  reached  the  house  of  Old  Johnny 
Moore,  as  he  was  familiarly  called  by  them,  and  after  the  dark- 
ness set  in.  Mrs.  Josephine  Moore,  a  Southern  heroine  of 
Mary's  trust  and  faith,  dressed  tenderly  all  the  hurts  and 
emptied  her  house  of  whatever  the  men  could  wear.  To  one 
she  gave  a  coat,  to  one  a  hat,  to  one  a  pair  of  shoes  or  boots, 
and  to  all  a  welcome  worth  thrice  the  balance. 

The  winter  of  1862  was  a  memorable  one.  The  deep  snow 
stayed  deep  to  the  last.  Military  operations  were  generally  sus- 
pended throughout  the  entire  country,  and  especially  did  the 
spring  make  haste  slowly  up  the  border  way.  Todd,  as  terrible 
as  the  roads  were,  and  as  pitiless  as  was  the  weather,  left  a  com- 
fortable cantoment  at  the  instance  of  his  unfortunate  comrades 
and  found  for  them  rapidly  horses,  accoutrements,  boots  and 
clothing.  Presently  the  report  began  to  circulate  that  Younger 
was  slain.  As  proof  of  the  fact  the  Federals  exhibited  in  In- 
dependence his  coat  and  hat,  and  a  pair  of  gloves  which  had 
upon  them,  "Presented  to  Lieutenant  Coleman  Younger  by 
Miss  M.  E.  Sanders."  Above  everything  else  lost  by  him, 
Younger  regretted  most  of  all  the  gloves.  Some  talismauic 
message,  perhaps,  had  made  them  precious. 

Wild  as  the  weather  was,  and  as  harsh  the  aspect  of  every- 
thing, John  Jarrette  arrived  one  day  from  the  South,  bringing 
with  him  Richard  Kenney,  Richard  Berry,  George  Shepherd, 
and  John  Jackson.  Younger  joined  these  with  John  McCorkle 
and  John  Coger,  and  altogether  they  worked  their  way  down 
into  Lafayette  county,  where  Poole  lived,  and  where  he  intended 
to  recruit  a  company.  Richard  Berry,  a  soldier  by  intuition, 
and  a  Guerrilla  because  of  the  daring  life  connected  with  the 
service,  saw  where  some  choice  young  spirits  might  be  gathered 
up,  and  he  had  come  to  enroll  them.  Afterwards  no  more  for- 
midable band  than  his  and  David  Poole's  fought  in  the  West. 

In  Lafayette  as  in  Jackson,  the  weather  was  simply  impossi- 
ble. Berry  found  shelter  speedily  and  disappeared.  Others 
did  the  same ;  and  Jarrette,  Younger,  McCorkle,  and  Coger 
countermarched  towards  the  Sni  hills  for  the  same  purpose.  En, 


148  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OR 

route  and  while  on  the  Georgetown  and  Lexington  road,  they 
surprised  and  captured  Colonel  King,  Major  Biggers,  and  seven 
private  soldiers.  At  this  time  the  black  flag  was  generally  re- 
cognized as  the  flag  under  which  the  militia  fought.  In  no 
single  instance  lately  had  the  life  of  a  captured  Guerrilla  been 
spared,  while  step  by  step  and  rapidly  that  period  was  ap- 
proaching when  all  disguise  would  be  thrown  off  and  the  com- 
batants, understanding  one  another  thoroughly,  would  seek  only 
to  exterminate.  Not  one  of  the  nine  Federals,  however,  was 
hurt.  Jarrette  was  a  Free  Mason  and  so  were  Colonel  King 
and  Major  Biggers.  A  vote  was  taken  and  much  depended 
upon  Younger.  McCorkle  and  Coger  had  good  reason  to  pro- 
nounce for  the  death  penalty.  Two  men  oftener  shot  at  and 
oftener  wounded  did  not  live.  Younger  bore  nothing  love  that 
wore  the  blue,  but  singular  as  it  seems,  in  this  instance  he  voted 
on  the  side  of  mercy,  and  many  times  thereafter.  Acquainted 
well  with  a  Mrs.  Bales,  an  aunt  of  King,  and  regarding  her 
emphatically  in  the  light  of  a  friend,  he  ranged  himself  with 
Jarrette.  To  break  the  tie  and  gain  over  Coger  was  not  diffi- 
cult; the  Federals  were  released  and  paroled.  Thus  were 
men's  lives  played  with  in  those  cruel  days,  and  thus  upon 
such  slender  things  did  human  action  depend.  Unquestionably, 
however,  it  was  the  influence  of  Free  Masonry  working  upon 
Jarrette  which  first  formed  the  channel  for  the  flowing  of  the 
other  good  impulses,  and  committed  to  the  cause  of  mercy,  two 
of  the  most  savage  men  in  the  ranks  of  the  Guerrillas — Jar- 
rette and  Coger. 

For  a  few  days  towards  the  latter  part  of  February  a  south 
wind  blew  and  some  little  thawing  was  observable  about  the 
sunny  places.  Tempted  by  it,  and  by  the  prospect  of  some  fur- 
ther open  weather,  Colonel  Penick  sent  Captain  Johnson 
out  from  Independence  on  a  scouting  expedition.  Not  long 
in  finding  a  fresh  Guerrilla  trail,  he  followed  it  eagerly.  Todd, 
Jarrette  and  Younger,  according  to  a  special  agreement,  were 
to  dine  with  Rodney  Hines  at  the  Will  Howard  place,  the  very 
day  Johnson's  expedition  got  under  way.  Preceding  these 
three  men  to  Mines'  by  several  hours  were  William  Hulse,  Boon 
Schull  and  Fletch  Taylor.  Hulse  was  a  swarthy  fighter  who  had 
no  superior  for  dead  game  and  bull-dog  tenacity.  Black  eyed, 
clean  limbed,  cool  always,  not  much  of  a  sleeper,  born  to  a 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDEE  149 

horse,  and  skilled  in  all  manly  exercises,  as  he  rode  he  rested, 
and  when  he  fought  he  killed. 

Boon  Schull,  destined  to  give  up  a  dauntless  young  life  early 
for  the  cause  he  loved  best,  won  the  respect  of  all  by  a  gener- 
osity unstained  of  selfishness  and  the  exercise  of  a  courage  that 
in  either  extreme  of  victory  or  disaster  remained  perfect  in 
attribute  and  exhibition.  None  were  more  gentle  than  he  ;  none 
more  courteous,  calm  and  kindly.  When  he  fell,  liberty  never 
required  upon  its  altar  as  a  sacrifice  a  purer  victim. 

Fletch  Taylor  was  a  low,  massive  Hercules,  who,  when  he 
had  one  arm  shot  off,  made  the  other  all  the  more  powerful. 
Built  like  a  quarter-horse,  knowing  nature  well,  seeing  equally 
in  darkness  and  light,  rapacious  for  exercise,  having  an 
anatomy  like  a  steam  engine,  impervious  to  fatigue  like  a 
Cossack,  and  to  hunger  like  an  Apache,  he  always  hunted  a 
fight  and  always  fought  for  a  funeral. 

These  three  men,  having  passed  on  carelessly  through  the 
snow  to  the  rendezvous  at  Hines'  left  a  good,  broad  trail  which 
Johnson — especially  commissioned  to  look  after  bushwhackers — 
was  not  slow  in  following.  Surrounded,  but  in  no  manner 
demoralized,  two  Federals  were  already  upon  the  front  porch 
when  Hulse,  discovering  them,  fired  through  a  side  window  and 
shot  down  the  foremost.  The  other  ran,  and  Johnson,  on  foot, 
began  to  close  up.  Hurrying  from  the  front  of  the  house  to  the 
rear,  and  then  through  an  ell  and  a  kitchen,  the  Guerrillas, 
gained  their  horses,  hitched  to  the  inner  side  of  an  orchard  fence, 
and  essayed  to  mount  under  a  distressing  fire.  The  horses  were 
inexperienced  and  untried,  and  struggled  so  violently  to  break 
loose  that  the  men  could  neither  control  nor  mount  them. 
Fletch  Taylor  drew  a  knife  and  cut  the  halter  of  his  horse,  got 
into  the  saddle  and  opened  a  furious  fire  upon  the  nearest  Fed- 
erals— a  pitsol  in  each  hand  and  the  bridle  rein  in  his  teeth. 
Somewhat  protected  by  a  diversion  so  gallantly  made,  Schull  and 
Hulse  got  mounted  finally,  joined  in  the  combat  with  Taylor,  and 
drove  to  cover  the  enemy  immediately  in  front  of  them.  Re- 
inforced, the  Federals  came  on  with  loud  cheers  as  if  they  were 
charging  a  regular  line  of  battle,  but  the  three  horsemen — gal- 
lantly waving  their  hats  to  the  ladies  of  the  house  where  they 
had  expected  to  dine — cleared  the  orchard  fence  at  a  bound  and 
rode  rapidly  away.  Johnson  could  not  pursue  for  some  time. 


150  NOTED  GUEEEILLASy  OK 

He  had  dismounted  two  companies  that  three  Guerrillas  might 
.be  captured,  and  when  he  needed  them  most  he  had  not  at  his 
command  even  so  much  as  a  single  mounted  trooper.  In  hearing 
of  the  guns,  and  rushing  down  to  help  his  comrades,  Younger 
arrived  too  late  to  participate ;  but  laying  off  and  on  in  sailor 
fashion,  he  hung  about  t'ie  Howard  premises  and  watched  the 
Independence  road  for  half  the  night,  thinking  Johnson  might 
return.  Afraid  to  fire  upon  him  where  he  was  in  bivouac,  lest 
in  revenge  he  should  kill  Hines  and  burn  the  house  from  over 
the  heads  of  his  family,  and  seeing  no  indications  of  a  move  in 
any  quarter,  Younger  marched  at  midnight  in  the  direction  of 
Blue  Springs,  breakfasting  the  next  morning  with  Joel  Basham. 
Beyond  Basham  lived  William  Hopkins,  and  there  Younger 
found  Todd  and  his  men  well  mounted  and  in  splendid  fighting 
fix.  Fortune  also  favored  Johnson.  Jarrette,  Gregg  and  David 
Hilton,  having  remained  the  previous  night  at  the  house  of 
Baby  Saunders,  started  for  Hilton's  early  in  the  morning  to 
meet  with  Todd,  and  it  was  the  trail  made  by  them  that  John- 
son found  and  followed  up  with  considerable  energy.  As  he 
rode  he  threatened ;  wherever  he  stopped,  or  whenever  he  had 
occasion  to  question  a  citizen,  he  promised  invariably  in  leav- 
ing to  catch  the  Guerrillas  in  front  of  him  and  hang  them  after- 
wards. Man  proposes  and  God  disposes. 

Todd,  in  command  of  all  the  united  squads  by  virtue  of  his 
rank,  and  well  informed  of  Johnson's  approach,  had  everything 
in  readiness  to  receive  him.  It  was  going  to  be  a  most  remark- 
able fight.  Todd,  forming  the  Guerrillas  in  an  open  field  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  Hopkins  house,  had  on  the  left  of  this  field  a 
steep  bluff,  and  on  the  right  of  it  a  heavy  fence.  By  this  fence 
a  road  ran,  and  through  the  field  to  the  house,  which  was  upon 
the  bluff,  and  on  past  the  house  and  over  the  bluff  into  a  bottom 
beyond.  An  exact  count  showed  thirty  Guerrillas  and  sixty- 
four  militia ;  on  the  one  side  Captain  Johnson  commanded,  on 
the  other,  Captain  Todd.  The  prairie  wolf  was  about  to 
encounter  the  tiger. 

Johnson  marched  up  from  the  bottom  to  the  crest  of  the 
bluff,  halted  his  detachment  near  the  Hopkins  house,  and  rode 
forward  himself  towards  where  Todd's  line  was  formed  in  the 
field.  Todd,  Jarrette,  and  Younger  advanced  to  meet  him,  and 
quite  a  dialogue  ensued  at  the  distance  of  thirty  paces: 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER         151 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Johnson.  "Kansas  troops,"  replied 
Todd.  "What  command?"  " Jennison's."  "What  are  you 
doing  here?"  "Hunting  for  Guerrillas."  " Excellent  employ- 
ment, but  your  line  looks  light ;  where  is  the  balance  of  your 
men?"  "What  you  see  are  all."  "Impossible!"  "Come 
and  judge  for  yourself."  Evidently  Johnson  had  discovered 
enough  to  convince  him  of  the  character  of  the  organization 
before  him,  and  he  wheeled  suddenly  and  put  spurs  to  his 
horse.  As  quick  as  he  was,  the  Guerrillas  were  quicker.  Todd, 
Jarrette  and  Younger  fired  each  at  him  three  shots  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, but  splendid  shots  that  they  were,  they  missed  him 
clear.  The  charge  that  followed  was  one  of  the  most  furious 
of  all  the  furious  ones  of  Todd's  tempestuous  career.  Before 
the  Federals  could  well  about  face,  the  Guerrillas  were  upon 
them  and  among  them.  Coherency  was  gone  in  a  second. 
Well  dressed  ranks  fell  apart  as  a  house  made  of  cards.  The 
retreat  was  a  panic,  the  panic  insanity.  As  a  tornado  the  storm 
of  steeds  and  steel  swept  to  the  southwest  corner  of  the  field, 
blue  rider  and  gray  side  by  side  and  shouting  in  each  other's 
faces.  The  road  was  abandoned.  In  every  direction  through 
the  woods  the  Federals  rushed,  shooting,  each  man  as  he  ran, 
"  Hold  up !"  "  Hold  up !"  but  never  a  halt  or  a  rally. 

It  had  rained  lately,  some  snow  had  melted,  and  Little  Blue 
was  bankfull.  From  the  corner  of  the  fence  on  the  southwest 
to  the  river,  it  was  an  hundred  yards,  and  nearer  still  to  the  river 
was  a  ditch.  Into  this  ditch  Johnson,  leading  his  troopers,  leaped 
fearlessly,  and  from  the  ditch  into  the  swimming  river.  Hot 
upon  their  track  and  seeing  before  them  an  enemy  helpless 
because  paralyzed,  the  Guerrillas  jumped  from  their  horses  and 
lined  the  east  bank  of  the  Blue,  attempting  to  fire  upon  them 
with  their  shotguns.  Not  a  barrel  exploded.  Wet  with  the 
rain  of  the  previous  morning,  these  never  to  be  depended  upon 
weapons  failed  them  utterly.  Every  revolver  had  been  dis- 
charged in  the  race,  the  gun  barrels  would  not  go  off,  the  Fed- 
erals at  their  mercy  were  struggling  and  swimming  in  the  river, 
and  yet  there  was  nothing  to  suoot  them  with. 

Beaten  back  from  the  opposite  bank  by  the  force  of  the 
current,  and  beaten  down  some  one  hundred  and  fifty  to  two 
hundred  yards,  Johnson  landed  again  on  the  eastern  side  of  the 
river  and  dashed  away  into  Blue  Springs,  beating  the  Guerrillas 


152  NOTED  aUERBILLAS,  OB 

who  had  halted  long  enough  to  load  their  revolvers,  and  who 
came  into  the  road  some  little  distance  behind  them.  Then 
there  was  another  charge  and  another  panic.  Side  by  side,  and 
leading,  Todd  and  Younger  rode  together.  Near  to  the  rear, 
with  pistol  in  hand  and  in  the  act  of  firing,  Todd's  horse  fell 
headlong  across  the  road,  and  Younger' s,  swerved  aside  by  its 
powerful  rider  lest  his  comrade  should  be  hurt,  lost  his  stride 
and  his  pace,  and  his  position  at  the  front.  Close  behind  them 
and  thundering  on,  Boon  Schull  leaped  his  horse  over  Todd  and 
his  crippled  steed,  followed  by  James  Little,  who  spoke  not  nor 
touched  rein  until  ranging  up  along  side  of  the  rearmost  Fed- 
eral he  shot  him  from  the  saddle.  Schull  dismounted  instantly 
over  the  dead  man  and  appropriated  his  carbine  and  his  pistols. 
Todd  mounted  his  horse  and  hurried  away  in  pursuit.  The 
next  victim  was  the  famous  Jim  Lane.  House-burner,  high- 
wayman, spy,  something  of  a  scout,  theatrical  in  hair  and 
toggery,  claiming  to  be  brave,  notorious  for  evil  deeds,  and 
known  somewhat  by  his  boasts  to  the  Guerrillas,  he  had  taken  the 
name  of  Jim  Lane  as  an  honor,  and  swore  to  set  it  above  the 
name  of  the  real  one  for  devilment  done  to  the  border  ruffians. 
Little  fired  at  him  and  missed ;  Schull's  pistol  snapped ;  but 
Younger,  dashing  by  at  full  speed,  shot  him  square  through  the 
temples.  Jim  Lane,  junior  or  inferior,  had  burnt  his  last  house 
and  robbed  his  last  Missourian.  To  keep  to  the  road  in  front 
of  a  pursuit  as  swift  and  merciless  as  the  pursuit  of  the  Guerril- 
las, was  simple  madness,  and  the  road  was  abandoned  by  the 
larger  portion  of  the  Federals  as  if  swayed  by  some  mysterious 
yet  instantaneous  impulse.  Nothing  in  the  semblance  of  an 
array  was  preserved ;  it  was  every  man  for  himself  and  God's 
mercy  for  the  hindmost.  Taylor,  followed  by  twenty  others, 
poured  through  the  timber  on  their  trail  and  killed  whenever  he 
came  to  one.  Jarre tte  and  George  Wigginton  were  the  last  to 
leave  the  heels  of  the  flying  foe,  killing  two  beyond  the  bridge 
between  Blue  Springs  and  Independence,  and  wounding 
another  badly  under  the  very  range  of  a  sheltering  picquet  post. 
As  trooper  after  trooper  galloped  into  Independence,  or  limped 
in  wearily  on  foot,  forlorn,  bedraggled,  scared  well  nigh  to 
speechlessness,  Penick,  without  doubt,  developed  a  clear  case 
of  hydrophobia.  Succeeding  every  report  there  was  a  spasm. 
Jerking  off  his  coat  in  the  agony  of  an  uncontrollable  paroxysm, 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  153 

he  went  about  the  streets  assaulting  and  knocking  down  each 
man  encountered  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  Southern  man  or  in 
sympathy  with  the  Guerrillas.  One  especially,  Tobias  Owens, 
should  receive  a  more  degrading  punishment.  Seeking  him 
out  and  finding  him  finally,  he  went  into  his  room  with  a  raw- 
hide in  his  hand  and  locked  the  door.  Owens  stood  ten,  maybe 
twenty,  good,  keen  cuts,  but  human  nature  rose  up  against 
and  mastered  prudence  at  last,  and  he  in  turn  became  the 
aggressor.  Wrenching  the  rawhide  from  Penick's  grasp  he 
gave  back  blow  for  blow  most  vigorously,  and  only  ceased  from 
his  punishment  when  the  excitement  of  the  assault  and  the 
violent  exercise  completely  exhausted  him.  Before  he  could  be 
assassinated  for  an  exhibition  of  manhood  justified  even  in  the 
eyes  of  a  militia  garrison,  he  escaped.  Thirty-two  Federals  per- 
ished in  this  ill-starred  and  wretchedly  handled  expedition,  and 
nine  severely  shot,  died  afterwards.  Not  so  much  as  a  single 
Guerrilla  was  wounded.  The  militia  could  not  or  did  not  fight. 
They  fired  more  or  less,  but  always  with  that  unsteadiness 
which  comes  from  a  want  of  nerve.  Johnson  himself  lost  his 
head.  The  officers  had  no  men,  and  the  men  had  no  officers. 
If  the  shot  guns  of  the  Guerrillas  had  gone  off  on  the  banks 
of  the  Blue,  not  a  soldier  due  at  Independence  would  ever  have 
returned  there.  Penick  hurried  out  the  next  day  two  hundred 
cavalry  and  three  pieces  of  artillery  for  purposes  of  display 
alone,  and  to  hide  his  regiment's  grievous  hurt.  He  shelled 
the  timber  on  both  sides  of  the  road  from  Independence  to 
Hopkins'  house,  but  the  Guerrillas,  eating  dinner  ten  miles 
away,  laughed  over  their  plates  at  the  sound  of  the  cannon  and 
told  one  to  another  the  pleasant  story  of  the  Blue  Springs 
races. 

A  man  now  by  the  name  of  Emmet  Goss  was  beginning  to 
have  it  whispered  of  him  that  he  was  a  tiger.  He  would  fight, 
the  Guerrillas  said,  and  when  in  those  savage  days  one  went 
upon  the  war  path  so  endorsed,  be  sure  it  meant  all  that  it  was 
intended  to  mean.  Goss  lived  in  Jackson  county.  He  owned  a 
farm  near  Hickman'sMill,  and  up  to  the  fall  of  1861,  had  worked 
it  soberly  and  industriously.  When  he  concluded  to  quit 
farming  and  go  to  fighting,  he  joined  the  Jayhawkers.  Jenni- 
son  commanded  the  15th  Kansas  Cavalry,  and  Goss  a  company 
in  this  regiment.  From  a  peaceful,  thrifty  citizen,  he  became 


154  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

suddenly  a  terror  to  the  border.  He  seemed  to  have  a  mania 
for  killing.  Twenty  old  and  unoffending  citizens  probably  died 
by  his  hands.  When  Ewing's  famous  General  Order  No.  11 
was  issued — that  order  which  required  the  wholesale  depopula- 
tion of  Cass,  Bates,  Vernon  and  Jackson  counties — Goss  went 
about  as  a  destroying  angel,  with  a  torch  in  one  hand  and  a 
revolver  in  the  other.  He  boasted  of  having  kindled  the  flames 
in  fifty-two  houses,  of  having  made  fifty-two  families  homeless 
and  shelterless,  and  of  having  killed,  as  he  declared,  until  he  wag 
tired  of  killing.  Death  was  to  come  to  him  at  last  by  the  hand 
of  Jesse  James,  but  not  yet.  He  had  sworn  to  capture  or  kill 
Cole  Younger,  and  went  to  the  house  of  Younger' s  mother  on 
Big  Creek,  for  the  purpose.  She  was  living  in  a  double-log 
cabin  built  by  her  husband  before  his  death,  for  a  tenant,  and 
Cole  was  at  home.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock,  and  quite  dark. 
Cole  sat  talking  with  his  mother,  two  little  sisters  and  a  boy 
brother.  No  one  was  on  watch.  Goss,  with  forty  men,  dis- 
mounted back  from  the  yard,  fastened  their  horses  securely, 
moved  up  quietly  and  surrounded  the  house.  Between  the  two 
rooms  of  the  cabin  there  was  an  open  passage  way,  and  the  Jay- 
hawkers  had  occupied  this  before  the  alarm  was  given.  Desir- 
ing to  go  from  one  of  the  rooms  to  the  other,  a  Miss  Younger 
found  the  porch  full  of  armed  men.  Instantly  springing  back 
and  closing  the  door,  she  shouted  Cole's  name  involuntarily. 
An  old  negro  woman — a  former  slave,  but  more  of  a  confidant 
than  a  slave — with  extraordinary  presence  of  mind  blew  out  the 
light,  snatched  a  coverlet  from  a  bed,  and  threw  it  over  her 
head  and  shoulders.  "  Get  behind  me,  Marse  Cole,  quick!" 
she  said  in  a  whisper,  and  Cole  in  a  second,  with  a  pistol  in  each 
hand,  stood  up  close  to  the  old  woman,  the  bed  spread  covering 
them  both.  Then  throwing  wide  the  door,  and  receiving  in  her 
face  the  gaping  muzzles  of  a  dozen  guns,  she  queruously  cried 
out:  "  Don't  shoot  a  poor  old  nigger,  massa  sogers.  It's 
nobody  but  me  gwine  to  see  what's  de  matter.  Ole  Missus  is 
nearly  skeered  to  death."  Slowly  then,  so  slowly  that  it  seemed 
an  age  to  Cole,  she  strode  through  the  crowd  of  Jayhawkers 
blocking  up  the  portico,  and  out  into  the  darkness  and  the  night. 
Swarming  about  the  two  rooms  and  rummaging  everywhere,  a 
portion  of  the  Jayhawkers  kept  looking  for  Younger,  and  swear- 
ing brutally  at  their  ill-success,  while  another  portion,  watching 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  155 

the  movements  of  the  old  negress,  saw  her  throw  away  the  bed 
spread,  clap  her  hands  excitingly  and  shout:  "Run,  Marse 
Cole!  run  for  your  life!  de  debbil  can't  cotch  you  this  time!" 
Giving  and  taking  a  volley  which  harmed  no  one,  Cole  made 
his  escape  without  a  struggle.  As  for  the  old  negro  woman, 
Goss  debated  sometime  with  himself  whether  he  should  shoot 
her  or  hang  her.  Unquestionably  a  rebel  negro,  she  was  perse- 
cuted often  and  often  for  her  opinion's  sake,  and  hung  up 
twice  by  militia  to  make  her  tell  of  the  whereabouts  of  Guer- 
rillas. True  to  her  people  and  her  cause,  she  died  at  last  in 
the  odor  of  devotion. 


CHAPTER  XL 

QUANTRELL  VISITS   RICHMOND. 

/^vUANTRELL  tarried  but  a  little  while  with  the  army  in 
V^  Arkansas.  Guerrilla,  as  he  was,  and  hated  and  pro- 
scribed as  he  was,  and  savage  as  he  had  the  reputation  of  being, 
the  man  yet  dreamed  dreams  of  empire,  and  had  vivid  glimpses 
or  revealments  of  the  future  of  the  war.  Taking  with  him  two 
of  his  men,  Blunt  and  Higbee,  and  protected  by  the  necessary 
passports  from  department  headquarters,  Quantrell  started 
directly  for  Richmond.  The  old  company  was  left  with  Gregg 
until  January,  1862,  who,  turning  over  the  command  to  Scott, 
made  his  way  into  Missouri  with  ten  Guerrillas.  Scott  remained 
until  Quantrell  returned  from  Richmond,  performing  every  regu- 
lar duty  with  alacrity  and  giving  evidence  of  the  possession  of 
all  the  inherent  qualities  of  a  brilliant  soldier.  Before  the  last 
of  the  snows  had  melted,  and  ere  yet  the  trees  had  begun  to 
awaken  to  an  idea  of  verdure  and  the  spring,  Quantrell  was 
back  again  in  Jackson  county,  marshalling  his  Guerrillas  and 
closing  up  his  ranks. 

His  interview  at  Richmond  with  the  Confederate  Secretary  of 
War  was  a  memorable  one.  Gen.  Louis  T.  Wigfall,  then  a 
Senator  from  Texas,  was  present  and  described  it  afterwards  in 
his  rapid,  vivid,  picturesque  way.  Quantrell  asked  to  be  com- 
missioned as  a  Colonel  under  the  Partisan  Ranger  Act,  and  to 
be  so  recognized  by  the  Department  as  to  have  accorded  to  him 
whatever  protection  the  Confederate  government  might  be  in  a 
condition  to  exercise.  Never  mind  the  question  of  men,  he 
would  have  the  complement  required  in  a  month  after  he 
reached  Western  Missouri.  The  warfare  was  desperate,  he 
knew,  the  service  desperate,  everything  connected  with  it  was 
desperate ;  but  the  Southern  people  to  succeed  had  to  fight  a 
desperate  fight.  The  Secretary  suggested  that  war  had  its 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER          157 

amenities  and  its  refinements,  and  that  in  the  nineteenth  century 
it  was  simple  barbarism  to  talk  of  a  black  flag. 

" Barbarism,!"  and  Quantrell's  blue  eyes  blazed,  and  his 
whole  manner  and  attitude  underwent  a  transformation,  "bar- 
barism, Mr.  Secretary,  means  war  and  war  means  barbarism. 
Since  you  have  touched  upon  this  subject,  let  us  discuss  it  a 
little.  Times  have  their  crimes  as  well  as  men.  For  twenty 
years  this  cloud  has  been  gathering ;  for  twenty  years — inch  by 
inch  and  little  by  little  those  people  called  the  Abolitionists 
have  been  on  the  track  of  slavery ;  for  twenty  years  the  people 
of  the  South  have  been  robbed,  here  of  a  negro  and  there  of  a 
negro ;  for  twenty  years  hates  have  been  engendered  and  wrath- 
ful things  laid  up  against  the  day  of  wrath.  The  cloud  has 
burst.  Do  not  condemn  the  thunderbolt." 

The  War  Secretary  bowed  his  head.  Quantrell,  leaving  his 
own  seat,  and  standing  over  him  as  it  were  and  above  him, 
went  on. 

"Who  are  these  people  you  call  Confederates?  Rebels,  unless 
they  succeed ;  outcasts,  traitors,  food  for  hemp  and  gunpowder. 
There  were  no  great  statesmen  in  the  South,  or  this  war  would 
have  happened  ten  years  ago;  no  inspired  men,  or  it  would 
have  happened  fifteen  years  ago.  To-day  the  odds  are  desper- 
ate. The  world  hates  slavery ;  the  world  is  fighting  you.  The 
ocean  belongs  to  the  Union  navy.  There  is  a  recruiting  officer 
in  every  foreign  port.  I  have  captured  and  killed  many  who 
did  not  know  the  English  tongue.  Mile  by  mile  the  cordon  is 
being  drawn  about  the  granaries  of  the  South,  Missouri  will  go 
first,  next  Kentucky,  next  Tennessee,  by  and  by  Mississippi 
and  Arkansas,  and  then  what?  That  we  must  put  gloves  on  our 
hands,  and  honey  in  our  mouths,  and  fight  this  war  as  Christ 
fought  the  wickedness  of  the  world?" 

The  War  Secretary  did  not  speak.  Quantrell,  perhaps,  did 
not  desire  that  he  should.  "You  ask  an  impossible  thing,  Mr. 
Secretary.  This  secession,  or  revolution,  or  whatever  you  call 
it  cannot  conquer  without  violence,  nor  can  those  who  hate  it 
and  hope  to  stifle  it,  resist  without  vindictiveness.  Every  strug- 
gle has  its  philosophy,  but  this  is  not  the  hour  for  philosophers. 
Your  young  Confederacy  wants  victory,  and  champions  who 
are  not  judges.  Men  must  be  killed.  To  impel  the  people 
to  passion  there  must  be  some  slight  illusion  mingled  with  the 


158  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

truth ;  to  arouse  them  to  enthusiasm  something  out  of  nature 
must  occur.  That  illusion  should  be  a  crusade  in  the  name  of 
conquest,  and  that  something  out  of  nature  should  be  the  black 
flag.  Woe  be  unto  all  of  you  if  the  Federals  come  with  an  oath 
of  loyalty  in  one  hand  and  a  torch  in  the  other.  I  have  seen 
Missouri  bound  hand  and  foot  by  this  Christless  thing  called 
Conservatism,  and  where  to-day  she  should  have  two  hundred 
thousand  heroes  fighting  for  liberty,  beneath  her  banners  there 
are  scarcely  twenty  thousand." 

"What  would  you  do,  Captain  Quantrell,  were  your's  the 
power  and  the  opportunity?" 

"Do,  Mr.  Secretary?  Why  I  would  wage  such  a  war  and 
have  such  a  war  waged  by  land  and  sea  as  to  make  surrender 
forever  impossible.  I  would  cover  the  armies  of  the  Confed- 
eracy all  over  with  blood.  I  would  invade.  I  would  reward 
audacity.  I  would  exterminate.  I  would  break  up  foreign 
enlistments  by  indiscriminate  massacre.  I  would  win  the  inde- 
pendence of  my  people  or  I  would  find  them  graves." 

"And  our  prisoners,  what  of  them?" 

"Nothing  of  them ;  there  would  be  no  prisoners.  Do  they 
take  any  prisoners  from  me?  Surrounded,  I  do  not  surrender; 
surprised,  I  do  not  give  way  to  panic ;  outnumbered,  I  rely  upon 
common  sense  and  stubborn  fighting;  proscribed,  I  answer 
proclamation  with  proclamation ;  outlawed,  I  feel  through  it 
my  power ;  hunted,  I  hunt  my  hunters  in  turn ;  hated  and  made 
blacker  than  a  dozen  devils,  I  add  to  my  hoofs  the  swiftness  of 
a  horse,  and  to  my  horns  the  terrors  of  a  savage  following. 
Kansas  should  be  laid  waste  at  once.  Meet  the  torch  with  the 
torch,  pillage  with  pillage,  slaughter  with  slaughter,  subjugation 
with  extermination.  You  have  my  ideas  of  war,  Mr.  Secre- 
tary, and  I  am  sorry  they  do  not  accord  with  your  own,  nor 
the  ideas  of  the  government  you  have  the  honor  to  represent  so 
well."  And  Qu,antrell,  without  his  commission  as  a  Partisan 
Ranker,  or  without  any  authorization  to  raise  a  regiment  of 
Partisan  Rangers,  bowed  himself  away  from  the  presence  of  the 
Secretary  and  away  from  Richmond. 

From  Arkansas  to  the  Missouri  river  the  journey  in  detail 
would  read  like  a  romance.  The  whole  band,  numbering 
thirty,  were  clad  in  Federal  uniform,  Quantrell  wearing  that  of 
a  captain.  Whenever  questioned  the  answer  was:  "A  Federal 


THE  WARFABE  OF  THE  BOEDER  159 

scout  on  special  service."  Such  had  been  the  severity  of  the 
winter,  and  such  the  almost  dea'd  calm  in  military  quarters, 
that  all  ordinary  vigilance  seemed  to  have  disappeared,  and  even 
ordinary  prudence  forgotten.  South  of  Spring  river  a  day's 
inarch,  ten  militia  came  into  Quantrell's  camp  and  invited  them- 
selves to  supper.  They  were  fed,  but  they  were  killed.  Quan- 
treli  himself  was  the  host.  He  poured  out  the  coffee,  supplied 
attentively  every  little  want,  insisted  that  those  whose  appetites 
were  first  appeased  should  eat  longer,  and  then  shot  at  his  own 
table  the  two  nearest  to  him,  and  saw  the  others  fall  beneath 
the  revolvers  of  his  men  with  scarcely  so  much  as  a  change 
of  color. 

North  of  Spring  river  there  was  a  dramatic  episode.  Perhaps 
in  those  days  every  county  had  its  tyrant.  Most  generally 
revolutions  breed  monsters,  and  in  the  fathomless  depths  of  the 
unknown  horrible  things  stir  and  crawl  about  that  otherwise 
would  devour  one  another  and  die  if  the  sweep  of  the  war 
storm  did  not  invade  their  depths  and  cast  them,  clothed  with 
something  of  the  semblance  of  humanity,  into  the  fields  where 
the  red  reapers  are. 

Obadiah  Smith,  at  first  a  peacable  man,  and  at  last  a  terrible 
one,  operated  along  Spring  river  as  a  base,  and  ranged  at  will 
and  when  there  was  game  afoot,  to  the  north  and  the  south  of  it. 
He  would  take  no  chances  in  open  battle.  He  was  not  brave. 
Cunning,  of  immense  energy,  having  the  gift  of  penetration, 
and  much  of  the  philosophy  of  individual  control,  he  soon  estab- 
lished a  local  reputation  for  enterprise,  and  soon  enlisted  about 
him  a  company  of  desperate  thieves  and  cut- throats.  Terror 
ensued.  Houses  were  robbed  and  burnt,  some  old  men  killed, 
much  stock  was  driven  off,  and  outrage  and  oppression  dealt 
out  with  no  unsparing  hand.  Quantrell,  through  the  exercise 
of  a  little  strategy,  got  Smith  into  his  possession.  Passing  one 
afternoon  late  by  a  house  at  which  he  frequently  visited,  a  mes- 
sage was  left  to  the  effect  that  the  commander  of  a  Federal 
scout,  going  north  on  important  business,  desired  to  especially 
confer  with  him,  and  that  his  camp  might  be  found  five  miles 
further  upon  the  road.  Smith  received  the  message  in  due  time 
and  reported  accordingly.  He  had  much  talk  with  Quantrell. 
He  told  him  of  all  the  devilment  he  had  done,  and  all  he  pro- 
posed to  do.  The  winter  had  been  hard,  and  the  traveling 


160  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

light  but  he  thought  the  spring  would  soon  revive  business  and 
give  mto  the  nets  spread  for  the  unwary  many  a  goodly  haul. 
The  next  morning,  as  the  Guerrillas  broke  camp  and  rode  away 
to  the  north,  one  might  have  seen,  if  ha  had  been  at  all  curious 
about  such  things,  an  aged  oak  of  many  limbs,  and  on  the 
lowest  of  these  limbs  a  swaying  body. 

That  day,  about  ten  o'clock,  three  militia  came  to  the  column 
and  were  killed.  A  mile  from  where  dinner  was  procured,  five 
more.  These  also. were  killed.  In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  two 
more  —  killed;  and  where  they  bivouaced,  one  —  killed.  The 
day's  work  counted  elevep  as  its  aggregate,  and  nothing  of  an 
exertion  made  at  that  to  find  a  single  soldier.  Evil  tidings 
were  abroad,  however — evil  tidings  that  took  wings  and  flew  as 
a  bird.  Some  said  from  the  first  that  QuantrelPs  men  were  not 
Union  men,  and  some  swore  that  no  matter  the  kind  of  clothing 
those  inside  of  said  clothing  were  wolves.  Shot  evenly — that  is 
to  say  by  experienced  hands  in  the  head — the  corpses  of  the 
first  discovered  ten  awakened  from  their  lethargic  sleep  the  gar- 
risons along  Spring  river.  Smith's  executions  stirred  them  to 
aggression,  and  the  groups  of  dead  militia  crossed  continually 
upon  the  roadside,  horrified  while  it  enraged  every  cantonment 
or  camp.  Two  hundred  cavalrymen  got  quickly  to  horse  and 
poured  up  from  the  rear  after  Quantrell.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
keep  upon  his  track.  Here  a  corpse  and  there  a  corpse,  here  a 
heap  and  there  a  heap  —  blue  always,  and  blue  continually  — 
what  manner  of  a  wild  beast  had  been  sent  out  from  the 
unknown  of  Arkansas  to  prey  upon  the  militia? 

At  the  Osage  river  the  Federal  pursuit,  gathering  volume  and 
intensity  as  it  advanced,  struck  Quantrell  hard  and  brought 
him  to  an  engagement  south  of  the  river.  Too  much  haste, 
however,  cost  them  dearly.  The  advance,  being  the  smaller, 
had  out-ridden  the  main  body  and  was  unsupported  and 
isolated  when  it  attacked.  Quantrell  turned  upon  it  savagely 
and  crushed  it  at  a  blow.  Out  of  sixty-six  troopers  he  killed 
twenty ;  in  those  days  there  were  no  wounded.  Before  the 
main  body  came  up  he  was  over  the  Osage  and  away,  and 
riding  fast  to  encompass  the  immense  prairie  between  the  river 
and  Johnstown.  Scarcely  over  it  a  flanking  column  made  a  dash 
at  him  coming  from  the  west,  killed  Blunt's  horse,  wounded  three 
of  the  Guerrillas,  and  drove  Quantrell  into  the  timber.  Night 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  161 

fell  and  he  rode  out  of  sight  and  out  of  hearing.  When  he 
drew  rein  again  it  was  at  the  farm  of  Judge  Russell  Hicks,  on  the 
Sni,  in  Jackson  county.  The  next  morning  at  David  George's 
he  disbanded  for  ten  days,  sending  messengers  out  in  all  direc- 
tions to  announce  his  arrival  and  make  known  the  rendezvous. 
Todd  went  to  the  Six  Mile  country  to  recruit ;  Scott,  to  Lee's 
Summit;  Cole  Younger,  to  Big  Creek,  in  Cass  county;  Poole, 
to  Lafayette  county;  Gregg  and  Quantrell  remained  on  the 
Sni,  and  Jarrette  and  Berry  ran  at  large  from  the  Kansas  line  to 
Saline  county,  Missouri.  The  Federals  felt  the  stir  of  these 
rejuvenated  Cossacks  as  the  trees  the  stir  of  the  reawakened 
sap.  They  clutched  at  the  Missouri  river  and  held  it  between 
Lexington  and  Waverly  as  fast  as  the  ice  had.  Poole,  Gregg, 
Younger,  Scott,  John  Ross,  William  Greenwood,  Jarrette  and  a 
few  others  captured  the  steamer  Sam  Gaty,  while  Jarrette,  Rey- 
nolds, and  three  other  Guerrillas  pounced  upon  another  steamer 
at  Waverly.  John  Ross  and  William  Greenwood  were  Guer- 
rillas of  splendid  dash  and  intrepidity.  In  all  the  war  Green- 
wood was  never  known  to  be  without  a  smile  upon  his  face  or  a 
load  in  his  revolver.  Ross  was  a  boy  who  grew  up  in  battle 
and  when  he  became  a  man  he  was  also  a  veteran.  Either  was 
fit  to  fight  for  a  crown. 

Capt.  John  G.  McCloy  commanded  the  Sam  Gaty — a  brave, 
fearless,  true-hearted  sailor,  handy  with  a  pistol  himself,  and 
no  more  afraid  of  a  Guerrilla  than  a  sand-bar.  He  landed  his 
boat  at  a  wood-yard  just  below  Sibley,  but  scarcely  were  the 
stage  planks  run  out  on  the  shore  when  Jarrette,  Younger, 
Clifton,  Henry  Hockensmith,  William  Greenwood,  John  Poole, 
Cole  Younger  and  a  dozen  others  rushed  upon  the  deck. 
Twenty-two  negroes  were  on  board  in  Federal  uniform,  togeth- 
er with  twelve  white  soldiers.  Capt.  McCloy  was  not  on  watch 
at  the  time,  but  he  hurried  from  his  room  half  dressed  and  man- 
fully faced  the  Guerrillas.  Some  wanted  to  kill  the  negroes. 
Cole  Younger  swore  they  should  not  be  harmed,  and  Cole 
Younger' s  word  was  law  even  with  the  most  desperate  among 
the  band.  Among  the  white  soldiers  six  belonged  to  Penick's 
command  and  six  to  McFaren's.  Only  the  six  Penick  men 
were  killed,  and  these  because  Penick  had  ordered  all  who 
belonged  to  his  regiment  to  never  take  a  bushwacker  alive. 
Capt.  McCloy  also  held  out  stubbornly  against  taking  human 
11 


162  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

life.  His  cool  courage  won  the  respect  of  the  most  cruel 
among  the  Guerrillas,  and  his  indomitable  firmness  saved  his 
boat  from  being  burned.  Fifteen  hundred  sacks  of  flour  were 
thrown  into  the  river,  a  large  number  of  government  wagons, 
much  harness,  and  vast  quantities  of  military  supplies  generally. 
When  this  was  done  the  boat  was  permitted  to  go  on  its  way. 

The  ten  days  allotted  by  Quantrell  for  concentration  purposes 
had  not  yet  expired,  but  many  of  the  reckless  spirits,  rapacious 
for  air  and  exercise,  could  not  be  kept  still.  Poole,  Ross  and 
Greenwood  made  a  dash  into  the  German  settlement  of  Lafay- 
ette county,  and  left  some  marks  there  that  are  not  yet  obliter- 
ated. Albert  Cunningham,  glorying  in  the  prowess  of  a  splendid 
physical  manhood,  and  victor  in  a  dozen  combats  against 
desperate  odds,  fell  before  the  spring  came  in  an  insignificant 
skirmish  OH  the  Harrisonville  and  Pleasant  Hill  road.  Sooner 
or  later  the  most  of  them  were  to  fall — these  savage  Guerrillas, 
fighting  a  never  ending  and  hopeless  battle ;  gay,  going  ever 
forward  with  a  light  on  their  bronzed  faces,  and  crying  out  even 
as  the  gladiators  did:  "Morituri  te  salutant."  Cunningham 
loved  the  land  that  he  died  for.  A  shade  of  melancholy 
covered  his  features.  It  may  be  that  it  was  only  the  fixed  and 
overcast  look  of  one  who  was  destined  to  die  young.  His 
piercing  eyes  and  the  flexibility  of  his  features  revealed  a  tem- 
perament impressionable  to  all  beautiful  and  noble  things,  and 
.with  whom  everything  is  grave,  even  heroism.  If  he  had  a 
crime  it  was  the  pitiless  patriotism  of  his  conscience.  Fate 
favored  him  in  this  that  he  was  shot  dead.  When  they  buried 
him  he  had,  if  beyond  the  river  he  knew  of  it,  a  priceless  funeral 
service — the  Guerrillas  wept  for  him. 

In  the  lull  of  military  movements  in  Jackson  county,  Cass 
was  to  see  the  inauguration  of  the  heavy  Guerrilla  work  of 
1863.  Three  miles  west  of  Pleasant  Hill,  and  near  the  house  of 
Pouncy  Smith,  Younger  and  his  comrades  struck  a  blow  that 
had  the  vigor  of  the  old  days  in  it.  The  garrison  at  Pleasant 
Hill  numbered  three  hundred,  and  from  the  garrison  Lieutenant 
Jefferson  took  thirty-two  cavalrymen  and  advanced  three  miles 
toward  Smith's,  on  a  scouting  expedition.  Will  Hulse  and  Noah 
Webster,  two  Guerrillas  who  seemed  never  to  sleep,  and  to  be 
hanging  eternally  about  the  flanks  of  the  Federals,  discovered 
Jefferson  and  reported  his  movements  to  the  main  body 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  163 

encamped  at  Parson  Webster's.  Taking  with  him  eight  men  Joe 
Lee  hurried  to  cut  Jefferson  off  from  Pleasant  Hill ;  Younger, 
with  eight  more,  was  to  close  up  from  the  west.  Lee  had  with 
him  John  Webster,  Noah  Webster,  Sterling  Kennedy,  David 
Kennedy,  William  Hays,  Perry  Hays,  Henry  McAninch, 
James  Marshall,  Edward  Marshall,  and  Edward  Hink. 
He  was  to  gain  the  east  end  of  the  lane  and  halt 
there  until  Younger  came  up  at  its  western  extremity. 
Jefferson  discovered  Lee,  however,  and  formed  a  line  of  battle 
in  front  of  Smith's,  throwing  some  skirmishers  forward  and  get- 
ting ready  apparently  for  a  fight,  although  afterwards  it  was 
reported  that  Lee's  men  were  mistaken  for  a  portion  of  the  gar- 
rison left  behind  at  Pleasant  Hill.  Younger  had  further  to  go 
than  he  at  first  supposed,  but  was  making  all  the  haste  possible 
when  Lee,  carried  away  by  the  uncontrollable  impulse  of  his 
men,  charged  down  the  lane  from  the  east,  at  a  furious  rate. 
Jefferson  held  his  troopers  fair  to  their  line,  until  the  Guerrillas 
reached  a  carbine  range,  but  held  them  no  longer.  A  volley  and 
a  stampede,  and  the  wild  race  was  on  again.  About  a  length 
ahead  and  splendidly  mounted,  William  Hays  led  the  Guerrillas. 
Shot  dead,  his  horse  fell  under  him  and  crushed  his  senses  out 
for  half  an  hour.  John  Webster  and  Noah  Webster  took  Hays' 
place  through  sheer  superiority  of  horse  flesh  and  forced  the 
fighting,  John  killing  three  of  the  enemy  as  he  ran  and  Noah 
four.  Noah's  pistols  were  empty,  but  as  he  dashed  alongside  of 
the  rearmost  trooper  he  knocked  him  from  the  saddle  with  the 
butt  of  one  of  them,  and  seizing  another  by  the  collar  of  his 
coat,  dragged  him  to  the  ground.  Both  were  dispatched.  Too 
late  to  block  the  western  mouth  of  the  lane,  Younger  joined  in 
the  swift  pursuit  as  it  passed  him  to  the  left,  and  added  much  to 
the  certainty  of  the  killing.  Of  the  thirty-two,  four  alone 
escaped,  and  Jefferson  was  not  among  them.  Hulse  shot  him 
running  at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards,  and  before  he  got  to  him  he 
was  dead.  Pleasant  Hill  was  instantly  evacuated.  Not  a  Fed- 
eral garrison  remained  in  Cass,  outside  of  Harrisonville,  and  the 
garrison  there  was  as  effectually  imprisoned  as  if  surrounded  by 
the  walls  of  a  fortress.  The  Guerrillas  rode  at  ease  in  every 
direction.  Younger  and  Lon  Railey  hung  about  the  town  for  a 
week  killing  its  picquets  and  destroying  its  foraging  parties. 
Other  bands,  in  other  directions,  gathered  up  valuable  horses 


164  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

for  future  service  and  helped  onward  to  the  Southern  army 
troops  of  recruits  who  needed  only  pilots  and  protection  to  the 
Osage  river. 

Like  Cunningham,  the  man  who  had  fought  as  a  lion  in  twenty 
desperate  combats,  was  destined  to  fall  in  a  sudden  and  un- 
noted skirmish.  Returning  northward  in  the  rear  of  Quantrell, 
Lieutenant  William  Haller  was  attacked  at  sunset  and  fought 
till  dark.  He  triumphed,  but  he  fell.  His  comrades  buried 
him,  and  wept  for  him,  and  left  him:  Impetuous  alike  in  attack 
or  resistance,  the  resolution  that  always  accompanied  his  actions 
gave  to  his  young  face  that  rigid  cast  which  otherwise  would 
only  have  belonged  to  maturer  age.  Romantic  in  his  attach- 
ment to  the  South,  and  tinged  somewhat  with  the  fatalism  of  a 
military  dreamer,  he  took  no  more  heed  of  his  life  than  of  the 
wind  which  blew  out  the  long  locks  of  his  hair — no  more 
Ithought  of  the  future  than  if  God  were  liberty,  and  death  but  a 
going  to  God.  As  a  soldier  under  fire,  his  conscience  told  him 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  die  at  any  time,  and  he  died.  His  fea- 
tures when  he  fell  had  upon  them  that  strongest  expression  of 
his  soul — enthusiasm.  If  he  ever  thought  he  was  possessed  of 
faults,  he  would  have  gone  to  battle  as  to  a  sanctuary  to  con- 
fess them,  and  to  expiate  them  if  need  be  by  the  sacrifice  of 
his  blood.  Just,  chivalrous,  gentle  as  a  woman  yet  terrible  in 
combat,  staunch  to  comrade  and  true  to  honor's  laws,  when  he 
fell  Quantrell  lost  an  arm  and  his  country  a  hero. 

The  battle  year  of  1863  had  commenced;  formidable  men 
were  coming  to  the  surface  in  every  direction.  Here  and  there 
sudden  Guerrilla  fires  leaped  up  from  hidden  places  about  the 
State  and  burned  as  if  fed  by  oil  until  everything  in  their  reach 
had  been  consumed.  It  was  a  year  of  savsige  fighting  and  kill- 
ing ;  it  was  the  year  of  the  torch  and  the  black  flag ;  it  was 
the  year  when  the  invisible  reaper  reaped  sorest  in  the  ranks  of 
the  Guerrillas  and  gathered  into  harvest  sheaves  the  bravest  of 
the  brave. 

Anderson,  newly  above  the  horizon,  was  flashing  across  the 
military  heavens  as  a  war  comet.  Left  to  himself  and  permitted 
to  pursue  his  placid  ways  in  peace,  probably  the  amiable  neigh- 
bor and  working  man  would  never  have  been  developed  into  a 
tiger.  But  see  how  he  was  wrought  upon.  One  day  late  in 
1862  a  body  of  Federal  soldiers,  especially  enrolled  and 


WILLIAM  ANDERSON. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  155 

uniformed  to  persecute  women  and  prey  upon  non-combatants, 
gathered  up  in  a  half  day's  raid  a  number  of  demonstrative 
Southern  girls  whose  only  sin  had  been  extravagant  talk  and 
pro-Confederacy  cheering.  They  were  taken  to  Kansas  City 
and  imprisoned  in  a  dilapidated  tenement  close  upon  a  steep 
place.  Food  was  flung  to  them  at  intervals,  and  brutal  guards 
sang  ribald  songs  and  talked  indecent  talk  in  their  presence. 
With  these  women — tenderly  nurtured  and  reared — were  two  of 
William  Anderson's  sisters.  Working  industriously  in  Kansas 
with  his  father,  Anderson  knew  nothing  of  the  real  struggle  of 
the  war  and  nothing  of  the  incarceration  of  his  sisters.  A  quiet, 
courteous,  fair-minded  man,  and  one  who  took  more  delight  in 
a  book  than  in  a  crowd,  he  had  a  most  excellant  name  in  Ran- 
dolph county,  Missouri,  where  he  was  born,  and  in  Johnson 
county,  Kansas,  where  he  was  living  in  1862.  Destiny  had  to 
deal  with  him,  however.  The  old  rickety  ramshackled  building, 
within  which  were  the  huddled  women,  did  not  fall  down  fast 
enough  for  the  brutes  who  bellowed  about  it.  At  night  and  in 
the  darkness  it  was  undermined,  and  when  in  the  morning  a 
little  wind  blew  upon  it  and  it  was  shaken,  it  fell  with  a  crash. 
Cover  up  the  fair  faces  disfigured,  and  the  limp,  lifeless  bodies 
past  all  pain !  Dead  to  touch,  or  kiss,  or  passionate  entreaty 
Anderson's  eldest  sister  was  taken  from  the  wreck  a  corpse. 
The  younger,  injured  badly  in  the  spine,  with  one  leg  broken, 
and  her  face  bruised  and  cut  pitifully,  lived  to  tell  the  terrible 
story  of  it  all  to  a  gentle,  patient  brother  kneeling  at  her  bed- 
side and  looking  up  above  to  see  if  a  God  were  there. 

Soon  a  stir  came  along  the  border.  A  name  new  to  the  strife 
was  beginning  to  pass  from  band  to  band  ancj  have  about  the 
camp  fires  a  respectful  hearing.  u Anderson?"  "Anderson?" 
"Who  is  this  Anderson?"  the  Guerrillas  asked  one  of  another. 
"He  kills  them  all.  Quantrell  spares,  now  and  then,  and  Poole, 
and  Blunt,  and  Yager,  and  Haller,  and  Jarrette,  and  Younger, 
and  Gregg,  and  Todd,  and  Shepherd,  and  Cunningham,  and  all 
the  balance ;  but  Anderson  never.  Is  he  a  devil  in  uni- 
form?" 

What  he  was  fate  made  him.  Horsemanship  and  prowess 
seemed  as  natural  to  the  Missourian  as  aristocracy  and  the  sea 
were  to  Venice.  Dowered  thus,  Anderson  gathered  about  him 
a  band  of  Centaurs,  and  rode  at  a  gallop  into  terrible  notoriety. 


166  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Long-haired  and  lithe  as  a  gray-hound,  as  he  galloped  he  could 
swing  himself  to  the  earth  and  pick  up  a  pistol.  His  forehead 
was  broad,  clear,  and  arched  over  the  eyes  as  the  forehead  of  a 
man  who  can  brood  and  suffer.  His  nose,  slightly  aquiline  and 
thin  about  the  nostrils,  betokened  much  of  sensitiveness  and 
more  of  determination.  His  eyes  were  variable  in  their  color, 
gray  seemingly  in  repose,  and  absolutely  black  and  expanded  in 
battle.  The  chin,  neither  square  nor  massive,  was  yet  a  firm 
chin  and  hidden  with  a  waving  beard.  All  that  was  cruel  about 
his  face  was  the  mouth — a  smiling,  handsome,  ferocious  mouth 
drawn  a  little  about  the  corners,  and  having  as  cruel  attributes 
lips  that  were  thin,  and  regular  teeth,  white  and  wide  apart. 
Anderson,  with  his  men,  was  immensely  popular.  His  soldiers 
adored  him.  His  rigorous  discipline  was  relaxed  at  the  proper 
moment;  under  his  asperity  he  concealed  genuine  bonhommie. 
Possessed  of  a  natural  eloquence,  and  manners  at  once  free  and 
martial,  he  had  only  to  be  firm  and  his  desperadoes  were  as 
heated  wax  in  his  hands.  Such  ascendency,  unless  based  upon 
other  qualities  than  personal  accomplishment  or  individual  tact, 
could  never  have  endured  the  fierce  strains  of  savage  Guerrilla 
warfare ;  but  wherever  danger  was  blackest,  from  the  midst  of 
it  Anderson's  cheering  voice  was  heard ;  and  wherever  the 
wreck  of  ranks  and  the  tearing  asunder  of  battle  lines  were 
thickest  and  deadliest,  there,  leading  the  press  and  raging  as  a 
wild  beast,  Anderson  fought  as  a  man  possessed  of  a  devil. 
And  he  kept  a  list  of  his  victims.  One  other  Guerrilla  alone 
surpassed  him — Archie  Clemmens,  a  boy  soldier,  blue-eyed  and 
beardless.  Each  had  a  silken  cord  knotted,  and  every  knot 
stood  for  a  life.  What  a  ghastly  memorandum  it  was !  The 
knots  increased.  All  through  the  wild  war  weather  of  1863  and 
1864  the  silken  cords  came  often  from  their  buckskin  pouches, 
and  the  knots,  skillfully  tied  with  deft,  deadly  fingers,  grew  and 
grew.  At  last  on  Anderson's  there  were  fifty-three  and  on 
Clemmens'  fifty-four — the  terrible  aggregate  one  hundred  and 
seven.  Thereafter  Anderson  never  tied  another.  In  the  rear 
of  the  raid  Price  made  in  18fi4 — a  raid  tinged  as  it  were  and 
made  splendid  with  some  of  the  sunset  glories  of  the  war  in  the 
trans-Mississippi  Department  —  Anderson  struck  a  brigade  of 
Federal  infantry  across  the  road  he  proposed  to  travel.  He  was 
a  man  who  rode  over  things  in  preference  to  riding  round  them. 


THE  WAKFAXE  OF  THE  BOEDER  167 

He  ordered  a  charge  as  soon  as  he  struck  the  skirmishers,  and 
dashed  ahead  as  he  always  did,  the  foremost  rider  in  a  band  that 
had  devils  for  riders.  Hampered  by  the  recruits  he  was  taking 
to  Price,  and  making  no  allowance  for  the  timidity  of  unarmed 
and  undrilled  men,  he  charged,  but  he  charged  alone.  A  minie 
ball  found  his  heart.  Life,  tliank  God,  was  gone  when  a  rope 
was  put  about  his  neck  and  his  body  was  dragged  as  the  body 
of  a  deer  slain  in  the  woods.  Many  a  picture  was  taken  of  the 
dead  lion,  with  his  great  mane  of  a  beard,  and  that  indescrib- 
able pallor  of  death  on  his  bronzed  face. 

Jesse  and  Frank  James  had  emerged  now  from  the  awkward- 
ness of  youth  and  become  giants  in  a  night.  Jesse  was  scarcely 
sixteen  years  of  age.  Frank  a  couple  of  years  older.  The  war 
made  them  Guerrillas.  Jesse  was  at  home  with  his  step-father, 
Dr.  Reuben  Samuels,  of  Clay  county.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
strife  save  the  echoes  of  it  that  now  and  then  reached  his  moth- 
er's isolated  farm.  One  day  a  company  of  militia  visited  this 
farm,  hung  Dr.  Samuels  to  a  tree  until  he  was  left  for  dead,  and 
seized  upon  Jesse,  a  mere  boy  plowing  in  the  field.  With  a  rope 
about  his  neck,  the  soldiers  abused  him  harshly,  pricked  him 
with  sabres,  and  finally  threatened  him  with  certain  death  if  it 
was  ever  reported  to  them  again  that  he  had  given  aid  or  infor- 
mation to  Guerrillas.  The  same  week  his  mother  and  sister 
were  arrested,  carried  to  St.  Joseph,  and  thrown  into  a  filthy 
prison.  The  hardships  they  endured  were  dreadful.  Often  with- 
out adequate  food,  insulted  by  sentinels  who  neither  understood 
nor  cared  to  learn  the  first  lesson  of  a  soldier — courtesy  to  women 
— cut  off  from  all  communication  with  the  world,  the  sister  was 
brought  near  to  death's  door" from  a  fever  which  followed  the 
punishment,  and  the  mother — a  high  spirited  and  courageous 
matron — was  released  only  after  suffering  and  emaciation  had 
made  her  aged  in  her  prime.  Before  Mrs.  James  returned  to 
her  home,  Jesse  had  joined  Frank  in  the  camp  of  Quantrell, 
who  had  preceded  him  a  few  months,  and  who  had  already,  not- 
withstanding the  briefness  of  the  service,  made  a  name  for 
supreme  and  conspicuous  daring.  Jesse  James  had  a  face  as 
smooth  and  as  innocent  as  the  face  of  a  school  girl.  The  blue 
eyes — very  clear  and  penetrating — were  never  at  rest.  His 
form — tall  and  finely  moulded — was  capable  of  great  effort  and 
great  endurance.  On  his  lips  there  was  always  a  smile,  and  for 


168  NOTED  GUERRILLA^  OR 

every  comrade  a  pleasant  word  or  a  compliment.  Looking  at 
the  small,  white  hands  with  their  long,  tapering  fingers,  it  was 
not  then  written  or  recorded  that  they  were  to  become  with  a 
revolver  among  the  quickest  and  deadliest  hands  in  the  West. 
Frank  was  a  little  older  and  taller  than  Jesse.  Jesse's  face  was 
something  of  an  oval ;  Frank's  was  long,  wide  about  the  fore- 
head, square  and  massive  about  the  jaws  and  chin,  and  set 
always  in  a  look  of  fixed  repose.  Jesse  laughed  at  many  things ; 
Frank  laughed  not  at  all.  Jesse  was  light  hearted,  reckless, 
devil-may-care;  Frank  was  sober,  sedate,  a  splendid  man  always 
for  ambush  or  scouting  parties.  Both  were  undaunted. 

Spring  had  put  leaves  upon  all  the  trees  and  birds  upon  all 
their  branches.  The  Guerrilla  sang  as  he  rode,  and  blessed  in 
his  heart  the  good  God  who  was  also  the  God  of  beneficent 
nature.  It  was  the  time  for  ambushments  and  obscurations ;  the 
time  to  take  hold  of  roads  and  strangle  the  travel  upon  them ; 
the  time  to  ally  with  the  fastnesses  by  day  and  make  the  night 
spectral  with  colossal  horsemen ;  the  time  to  kill  in  the  under- 
growth and  devour  along  the  highway ;  the  time  to  put  more 
fuel  on  the  fire  beneath  the  cauldron  and  stir  it  until  hideous 
things  came  to  the  surface  and  made  parts  and  parcels  of  the 
strife. 

Scott,  back  long  from  the  South  and  eager  for  action,  crossed 
the  Missouri  river  at  Sibley  the  20th  day  of  May,  1863,  taking 
with  him  twelve  men.  Frank  James  and  James  Little  led  the 
advance.  Beyond  the  river  thirteen  miles  and  at  the  house  of 
Moses  McCoy,  the  Guerrillas  camped,  concocting  a  plan 
whereby  the  Federal  garrison  at  Richfield,  numbering  thirty, 
might  be  got  at  and  worsted.  Captain  Sessions  was  in.  com- 
mand at  Richfield,  and  his  grave  was  already  being  dug.  Scott 
found  a  friendly  citizen  named  Peter  Mahoney  who  volunteered 
to  do  the 'decoy  work.  He  loaded  up  a  wagon  with  wood, 
clothed  himself  in  the  roughest  and  raggedest  clothes  he  had, 
and  rumbled  away  behind  as  scrawny  and  fidgety  a  yoke  of 
oxen  as  ever  felt  a  north  wind  in  the  winter  bite  their  bones  or 
deceptive  buckeye  in  the  spring  swell  their  bellies. 

"Mr.  Mahoney,  what  is  the  news?"  This  was  the  greeting 
he  got.  "No  news;  I  have  wood  for  sale.  Yes,  but  there  is 
some  news,  too;  I  like  to  have  forgot.  Eight  or  ten  of 
those  Quantrell  men  are  prowling  about  my  way,  the  infernal 


FRANK  JAMES. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  169 

scoundrels,    and    I    hope    they    may  be  hunted  out  of   the 
county." 

Mahoney  did  well,  but  Scott  did  better.  He  secreted  his 
men  three  miles  from  Richfield  and  near  the  crossing  of  a 
bridge.  If  an  enemy  came  the  bridge  was  a  sentinel;  its 
resounding  planks  the  explosion  of  a  musket.  Scott,  with 
eight  men,  dismounted  and  lay  close  along  the  road.  Gregg, 
with  Fletch  Taylor,  James  Little  and  Joe  Hart,  mounted  and 
ready  to  charge,  kept  still  and  expectant  fifty  yards  in  the  rear 
of  the  ambush.  Presently  at  the  crossing  a  dull  booming  was 
heard,  and  the  Guerrillas  knew  that  Sessions  had  bit  at  the  bait 
Mahoney  offered.  A  sudden  clicking  along  the  line — the  eight 
uere  in  a  hurry.  "Be  still,"  said  Scott;  "you  cock  too  soon. 
I  had  rather  have  two  cool  men  than  ten  impatient  ones."  The 
Federals  came  right  onward ;  they  rode  along  gaily  in  front  of 
the  ambuscade ;  they  had  no  skirmishers  out ;  and  they  were 
doomed.  The  leading  files  were  abreast  of  Scott  on  the  right 
when  he  ordered  a  volley,  and  Captain  Sessions,  Lieut.  Graffen- 
stien  and  seven  privates  fell  dead.  What  was  left  of  the  Fed- 
eral array  turned  itself  into  a  rout ;  Gregg,  Taylor,  Little  and 
Hart  thundered  down  to  the  charge.  Scott  mounted  again,  and 
altogether  and  away  at  a  rush,  pursuers  and  pursued  dashed 
into  Richfield.  Short  rally  there,  and  briefer  fighting.  The 
remnant  of  the  wreck  surrendered,  and  Scott — more  merciful 
than  many  among  whom  he  soldiered — spared  the  prisoners 
and  paroled  them. 

To  Mat.  McGinnis*  it  was  twenty  miles — a  hard  ride  after  a 
morning's  combat — but  Scott  made  it  by  sunset,  and  sent  Fletch 
Taylor  and  Frank  James  out  to  scour  the  country  and  learn  the 
situation.  The  situation  was  exceedingly  simple.  Startled  by 
the  sinister  sweep  of  the  Guerrilla  pinions,  always  so  dark  and 
threatening,  the  militia  doves  about  the  dove-cotes  had  begun  to 
mass  themselves  for  protection  and  to  make  ready  for  destroying 
the  intruders.  Clay  county  was  not  yet  used  to  such  riders  and 
raiders ;  it  was  part  of  a  border  patrimony  that  had  not  yet 
been  operated  upon  by  the  Guerrillas,  and  it  should  not  be.  Mrs. 
James  gave  her  son  also  the  further  information  that  the  great 
bulk  of  the  militia  from  Plattsburg,  Clinton  county,  had  been 
ordered  out  to  hunt  for  Scott,  and  that  Plattsburg  itself  and  at 
that  very  time  was  at  the  mercy  of  any  band  of  heroes.  Taylor 


170  NOTED  GUEKEILLAS,  OK 

and  James  got  quick  to  Scott  with  the  valuable  information,  and 
Scott  got  quick  to  horse.  In  the  beginning  of  the  second  night 
since  the  Richfield  battle,  the  march  was  begun  for  Plattsburg, 
Taylor  and  James  leading  the  advance.  Two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  found  the  Guerrillas  on  Smith's  fork  of  Grand  river, 
and  four  miles  from  the  objective  point.  TherefVas  a  halt  here 
and  a  sleep  until  daylight.  , Again  thrown  forward  to  develop 
the  situation,  Taylor,  Gregg,  Little  and  James  learned  speedily 
that  most  of  the  garrison  had  gone  out  under  Captain  Rodgers 
to  capture  Scott,  and  was  at  least  twenty  miles  -from  abandoned 
Plattsburg. 

Feeding  and  resting  up  to  three  in  the  afternoon,  Scott  at 
that  hour  saddled  for  the  attack.  In  the  advance  rode  Taylor, 
Gregg,  Little  and  Jackson.  They  took  the  main  road  at  a 
walk ;  ostensibly  they  were  militia.  Three  hundred  yards  from 
the  square  the  Guerrillas  formed  fours  and  dashed  ahead.  It  was 
hot  work.  Not  by  forty-six  had  the  garrison  gone  on  the  hunt 
under  Rodgers,  and  there  in  the  well  fortified  court  house,  held 
their  own  without  a  waver.  The  square  was  the  hot  place. 
All  the  loopholes  of  the  court  house  bore  upon  it ;  the  windows 
commanded  it ;  the  angles  were  swept  by  the  embrasures  cut 
especially  for  musketry.  Scott  dashed  into  this  square,  raked 
and  rained  upon  by  minie  balls,  and  so  did  Taylor,  John 
Jackson,  Little,  Gregg,  and  Frank  James.  Flying  swift  for 
succor,  and  shouting  to  his  men  as  he  ran  to  open  for  him, 
Frank  James  cut  off  the  Colonel  commanding  the  post  from  his 
bomb-proof  and  turned  him  over  to  Scott.  "Captain,"  he  said, 
as  he  halted  under  a  pitiless  fire  and  delivered  over  the  agitated 
officer,  "kill  this  man  unless  he  delivers  up  the  court  house." 
"That  I  will,  by  g — d,"  and  Scott  swore  a  great  oath  and  put 
his  hand  upon  his  pistol.  But  the  need  to  kill  him  never  came. 
The  garrison,  affected  by  the  appeals  of  its  commanding  officer, 
capitulated  without  a  further  fight,  forty-six  surrendering  to 
twelve.  Two  hundred  muskets  were  broken  to  pieces,  $10,000 
in  Missouri  defence  bonds  were  appropriated,  while  the  militia 
were  paroled  and  made  to  promise  better  treatment  of  non- 
combatants  and  Southern  citizens  in  the  future.  Taking  supper 
publicly  at  the  hotel,  and  having  as  his  guest  the  commander  of 
the  post,  Scott  played  the  hospitable  soldier  courteously,  settled 
his  score  like  a  prince,  and  rode  out  at  dark  and  rapidly  towards 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  171 

• 

the  Missouri  river.  Knowing  almost  every  foot  of  the  country, 
Scott  commissioned  Frank  James  especially  to  guide  the  column 
and  conduct  it,  if  that  were  possible,  to  a  ferry  the  enemy  was 
not  guarding.  His  mother's  house  being  on  the  direct  line  of 
his  march,  and  knowing  how  keenly  observant  and  how 
unusually  well  informed  of  military  movements  she  always  was, 
he  halted  long  enough  to  hear  her  story.  It  was  not  by  any 
means  a  flattering  one.  At  every  point  on  the  river  from 
Kansas  City  to  Lexington  where  a  skiff  had  ever  been,  or  a 
boat,  or  a  ferry,  or  a  canoe,  Federal  soldiers  were  stationed. 
Scott  had  aroused  and  alarmed  four  counties,  and  the  deter- 
mination was  either  to  kill  him  or  to  capture  him,  and  the  terms 
were  synonymous.  Scott  would  see,  however.  That  night  he 
camped  on  Fishing  river,  and  the  next  morning  early  he  sent 
Taylor,  Little  and  Hart  down  to  the  Missouri  to  beat  about  the 
crossings  and  take  a  real  look  at  the  facts.  He  would  remain 
in  camp  himself  until  they  returned  or  until  he  was  forced  to 
get  out  of  it.  He  was  forced  to  get  out,  and  that  speedily. 
Captains  Younger  and  Garth  struck  it  about  ten  o'clock  and 
poured  into  it  a  rattling  volley.  One  hundred  and  fifty  strong, 
what  else  could  the  ten  Guerrillas  do  but  get  up  and  get  away 
as  fast  as  possible.  The  pursuit  lasted  eight  miles,  Scott  fighting 
every  chance  he  got  and  holding  on  to  difficult  places  and  cross- 
ings until  he  was  either  flanked  or  about  to  become  enveloped. 
Ahead  of  pursuit  sufficiently  at  Blue  Mills  to  look  to  his  crossing 
somewhat,  Scott  made  a  rickety  raft  for  the  saddles  and  blankets 
and  for  the  men  who  could  not  swim,  and  got  over  safely.  On 
the  Jackson  side  the  quicksand  laid  hold  of  the  horses  of  Scott, 
Jackson  and  James,  and  inch  by  inch  and  struggle  by  struggle 
drew  them  down.  It  was  a  pitiful  sight.  The  poor  steeds  had 
on  their  faces  a  look  of  human  agony.  Every  effort  at  rescue 
only  hastened  the  engulfment.  The  sand  had  been  fair  to  look 
upon ;  some  leaves  were  upon  it  as  a  cover ;  it  reached  to  the 
higher  ground,  smooth  as  a  satin  band  and  springing  to  the 
feet  of  the  innocent  horses.  Take  care !  First  to  the  fetlock, 
next  to  the  knees,  and  the  bottom  is  gone,  and  the  sentient 
thing,  tawny  about  the  muzzle  and  creeping  as  a  worm,  crawls 
ever  and  ever  and  covers  as  it  crawls.  When  the  Guerrillas 
left  their  horses  the  Federals  were  on  the  northern  side  of  the 
river  firing  futilely  across,  and  the  treacherous  quicksand— 


172  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

unflecked  by  a  hoof-mark — spread  itself  out  again  under  the 
warm  sun  and  waited,  watching.  The  dismounted  men  had 
need  to  mount  themselves  rapidly ;  it  was  battle  everywhere. 
James  Combs  especially  gave  Frank  James  a  horse  destined 
soon  to  become  famous.  Wherever  he  was,  there  was  his  rider, 
and  wherever  the  rider,  there  tempest  and  dead  men. 

Four  miles  from  Independence,  and  back  a  little  from  the  road 
leading  to  Kansas  City,  a  house  stood  occupied  by  several 
women  light  of  love.  Thither  regularly  went  Federal  soldiers 
from  the  Independence  garrison,  and  the  drinking  was  deep  and 
the  orgies  shameful.  Gregg  set  a  trap  to  catch  a  few  of  the 
comers  and  goers.  Within  the  lines  of  the  enemy,  much  cir- 
cumspection was  required  to  make  an  envelopment  of  the  house 
successful.  He  chose  Jesse  James  from  among  a  number  of 
volunteers  and  sent  him  forward  to  reconnoitre  the  premises. 
Jesse,  arrayed  in  coquettish  female  apparel,  with  his  smooth  face, 
blue  eyes,  and  blooming  cheeks,  looked  the  image  of  a  bashful 
country  girl,  not  yet  acquainted  with  vice,  though  half  eager 
and  half  reluctant  to  walk  a  step  nearer  to  the  edge  of  its  peril- 
ous precipice.  As  he  mounted,  woman  fashion,  upon  a  fiery 
horse,  the  wind  blew  all  about  his  peach  colored  face  the  pink 
ribbons  of  a  garish  bonnet,  and  lifted  the  tell-tale  riding  habit 
just  enough  to  reveal  instead  of  laced  shoes  or  gaiters,  the 
muddy  boots  of  a  born  cavalryman.  Gregg,  taking  ten  men, 
followed  in  the  rear  of  James  to  within  half  a  mile  of  the  near- 
est picquet  post,  and  hid  himself  in  the  woods  until  word  could 
be  brought  from  the  bagnio  ahead.  If  by  a  certain  hour  the 
disguised  Guerrilla  did  not  return  to  his  comrades,  the  picquets 
.were  to  be  driven  in,  the  house  surrounded,  and  the  inmates 
forced  to  give  such  information  as  they  possessed,  of  his  where- 
abouts. Successful,  and  Gregg  neither  by  word  nor  deed,  was 
to  alarm  the  outpost  or  furnish  indication  in  any  manner  that 
Guerrillas  were  in  the  neighborhood. 

Jesse  Jarneg,  having  pointed  out  to  him  with  tolerable  accu- 
racy the  direction  of  the  house,  left  the  road,  skirted  the  timber 
rapidly,  leaped  several  ugly  ravines,  floundered  over  a  few 
marshy  places,  and  finally  reached  his  destination  without  meet- 
ing a  citizen  or  encountering  an  enemy.  He  would  not  dis- 
mount, but  sat  upon  his  horse  at  the  fence  and  asked  that  the 
mistress  of  the  establishment  might  come  out  to  him.  Little  by 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  173 

little,  and  with  many  a  gawky  protest  and  many  a  bashful 
simper,  he  told  a,  plausible  story  of  parental  espoinage  and  fam- 
ily discipline.  He,  ostensibly  a  she,  could  not  have  beaux, 
could  not  go  with  the  soldiers,  could  not  sit  with  them  late,  nor 
ride  with  them,  nor  romp  with  them  ;  she  was  tired  of  it  all  and 
wanted  a  little  fun.  Would  the  mistress  let  her  come  occasion- 
ally to  her  and  bring  with  her  three  or  four  neighbor  girls, 
who  were  in  the  same  predicament?  The  mistress  laughed  and 
was  glad.  New  faces  to  her  were  like  new  coin,  and  she  put 
forth  a  hand  and  patted  the  merchantable  thing  upon  the  knee, 
and  ogled  her  smiling  mouth  and  girlish  features  gleefully.  As 
she-wolf  and  venturesome  lamb  separated,  the  assignation  was 
assured.  That  night  the  amorous  country  girl,  accompanied  by 
three  of  her  young  female  companions,  was  to  return,  and  the 
mistress — confident  in  her  ability  to  provide  them  lovers — was 
to  make  known  among  the  soldiers  the  attractive  acquisition. 

It  lacked  an  hour  of  sunset  when  Jesse  James  got  back  to 
Gregg ;  an  hour  after  sunset  the  Guerrillas,  following  hard  upon 
the  track  made  by  the  boy  spy,  rode  rapidly  on  to  keep  the  tryst- 
ing.  The  house  was  gracious  with  lights,  and  jubilant  with 
laughter.  Drink  abounded,  and  under  cover  of  the  clinking 
glasses,  the  men  kissed  the  women.  Anticipating  an  orgy  of 
unusual  attractions,  twelve  Federals  had  been  lured  out  from  the 
garrison  and  made  to  believe  that  bare-footed  maidens  ran  wild 
in  the  woods,  and  buxom  lasses  hid  for  the  hunting.  No  guards 
were  out ;  no  sentinels  were  posted.  Jesse  James  crept  close  to 
a  window  and  peered  in.  The  night  was  chill  and  a  large  wood 
fire  blazed  upon  a  large  hearth.  All  the  company  was  in  one 
room,  five  women  and  a  dozen  men.  Scattered  about  yet  ready 
for  the  grasping,  the  cavalry  carbines  were  in  easy  reach,  and 
the  revolvers  handy  about  the  person.  Sampson  trusting  every- 
thing to  Delilah,  might  not  have  trusted  so  much  if  under  the 
old  dispensation  there  had  been  anything  of  bushwhacking. 

Gregg  loved  everybody  who  ever  wore  the  gray,  and  what  ex- 
ercised him  most  was  the  question  just  now  of  attack.  Should 
he  demand  a  surrender?  Jesse  James,  the  boy,  said  no  to  the 
veteran.  Twelve  men  inside  of  a  house,  and  the  house  inside 
of  their  own  lines  where  reinforcements  might  be  hurried  quickly 
to  them,  would  surely  hold  their  own  against  eleven  outside,  if 
indeed  they  did  not  make  it  worse.  The  best  thing  to  do  was 


174  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

to  fire  through  the  windows  and  kill  what  could  be  killed  by  a 
carbine  volley,  then  rush  in  through  the  door  and  finish — under 
the  cover  of  the  smoke,  the  horror  and  the  panic — what  sur- 
vived the  broadside. 

Luckily,  the  women  sat  in  a  corner  to  themselves,  and  close 
to  a  large  bed  fixed  against  the  wall  and  to  the  right  of  the  fire- 
place. On  the  side  of  the  house  the  bed  was  on,  two  broad 
windows  opened  low  upon  the  ground,  and  between  the  win- 
dows there  was  a  door,  not  ajar  but  not  fastened,  Gregg,  with 
five  men,  went  to  the  upper  window,  and  Taylor,  with  four, 
took  position  at  the  lower.  The  women  were  out  of  immediate 
range.  The  house  shook;  the  glass  shivered;  the  door  was 
hurled  backward ;  there  was  a  hot,  stifling  crash  of  revolvers ; 
and  on  the  dresses  of  the  women  and  the  white  coverlet  of  the 
bed  great  blood  splotches.  Eight  out  of  the  twelve  fell  dead 
or  wounded  the  first  fire ;  after  the  last  fire  all  were  dead.  It 
was  a  spectacle  ghastly  beyond  any  ever  yet  witnessed  by  the 
Guerrillas,  because  so  circumscribed.  Piled  two  deep  the  dead 
Hien  lay,  cne  with  a  glass  grasped  tightly  in  his  stiffened 
fingers,  and  one  in  his  shut  hand  the  picture  of  a  woman 
scarcely  clad.  How  they  wept,  the  poor,  painted  things,  for 
the  slain  soldiers,  and  how  they  blasphemed ;  but  Gregg  tarried 
not,  neither  did  he  make  atonement.  As  they  lay  heaped  where 
they  fell  and  piled  together,  so  they  lay  still  when  he  mounted 
and  rode  away. 

There  was  riding  and  mustering  in  and  about  the  country  of  the 
Hudspeths.  Every  Guerrilla  in  Missouri  knew  personally  or  had 
heard  of  the  Hudspeths.  Owning  well  nigh  a  whole  neighbor- 
hood in  the  eastern  portion  of  Jackson  county,  there  were  four 
brothers  who,  when  they  were  not  fighting  for  the  Southern 
Confederacy,  were  feeding  the  soldiers.  Lane  robbed  them, 
Jennison  robbed  them,  Anthony  robbed  them,  militiaman  and 
Jayhawker  alike  robbed  them ;  they  were  burnt  out  and  plun- 
dered ;  shot  at  and  waylaid ;  hunted  here,  driven  there,  and 
persecuted  everywhere,  but  they  could  not  be  reduced  in  either 
purse  or  spirit.  They  still  gave  and  fought.  They  scouted  for 
Quantrell  and  killed  with  Todd;  they  furnished  guides  for 
Anderson  and  ambuscaded  with  Gregg.  Their  land  could  not 
be  taken  from  them,  that  they  knew;  but  if  like  their  other 
property  it  had  been  moveable,  the  land  too  would  have  gone 


JESSE  W.  JAMES, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         ^5 

without  a  murmur.  Patriotism  was  the  standard  by  which  they 
judged  every  man,  and  those  who  were  not  patriotic  were  untrue. 
No  matter  the  iron  emergencies  that  were  sometimes  upon 
the  country ;  no  matter  what  blood-thirsty  orders  sought  to  kill 
comradeship  and  obliterate  sympathy;  no  matter  how  all  the 
highways  were  guarded  and  all  the  garrisoned  places  overgrown 
with  soldiers,  the  Hudspeths  kept  the  faith  and  fought  the  good 
fight  to  the  end. 

It  was,  therefore,  in  the  Hudspeth  neighborhood  that  a  mus- 
tering was  being  had.  Todd  had  sent  a  message  to  Scott,  and 
Scott  to  John  Jarrette,  and  John  Jarrette  to  Gregg,  and  Gregg 
to  Yager,  and  Yager  to  Anderson,  and  Anderson  to  Poole, 
and  Poole  to  Maddox,  and  so  the  tidings  went  from  chief 
to  chief  until  the  border  was  aflame.  At  the  rendezvous 
each  leader  hastily  arrived  bringing  in  the  aggregate  about 
seventy  Guerrillas.  It  was  the  intention  to  strike  a  blow 
somewhere,  but  as  yet  no  direction  had  been  agreed  upon 
nor  any  place  designated.  A  war  council  fixed  upon  Kansas 
City ;  to  such  men  the  impossible  was  possible.  Todd  was 
put  in  command  of  the  expedition,  and  -made  subsidiary  to  him 
were  Scott,  Anderson,  Yager,  Gregg,  Maddox  and  Jarrette. 
On  the  evening  of  the  16th  of  June,  1863,  Todd  formed  the 
Guerrillas  in  line  and  laid  down  the  law  to  them:  "It  has  been 
settled  that  we  attack  Kansas  City.  The  venture  is  a  desperate 
one ;  you  can  only  promise  yourselves  hard  fighting  and  hard 
riding ;  the  most  of  us  may  be  killed.  If  any  among  you 
desire  to  remain  behind  move  two  paces  to  the  front."  Not  a 
horse  stirred ;  rear  rank  and  front  rank  the  seventy  men  were 
as  adamant. 

It  was  not  to  be,  however — this  attack  upon  Kansas  City.  As 
Todd  reached  the  undulating  and  expanding  prairie  close  to  the 
residence  of  Col.  Upton  Hays,  he  saw  on  the  road  leading  from 
Westport  to  Little  Santa  Fe  a  column  of  Federals  numbering 
two  hundred.  They  were  en  route  from  Kansas  to  Westport, 
and  from  Westport  of  course  right  on  into  Kansas  City. 
"These  people,"  Todd  said,  laconically,  "had  better  be  fought 
outside  of  brick  walls  than  inside  of  them,  and  here  we  must 
fight."  To  cut  them  off  from  Westport  and  bring  them  to  a 
stand  in  the  open  ground,  a  distance  of  eight  miles  had  to  be 
traversed  while  the  Federals  were  marching  five.  It  was  done 


176  NOTED  GUEBBILLAS,  OH 

at  a  gallop,  Todd  reached  Brush  creek  in  front  of  the  advanc- 
ing column,  formed  his  men  behind  an  eminence,  and  rode  for- 
ward alone  to  reconnoitre.  His  signal  to  advance  was  the  lift- 
ing of  his  hat.  If  he  did  this  the  Guerrillas  were  to  ride  slowly 
to  the  crest  of  the  ridge ;  if  he  did  not  do  this,  they  were  to  file 
to  the  left  and  let  the  Kansas  column  go  by.  Clear-cut  yet 
standing  massive  against  the  blue  sky  beyond,  Todd  silently  sat 
his  horse  in  front  of  his  line  for  a  few  minutes  and  gazed  upon 
the  advancing  enemy.  If  they  saw  him,  they  made  no  sign.  If 
he  counted  them,  their  numbers  did  not  deter  him,  for  he  lifted 
his  hat  once  as  he  turned  to  his  men,  and  drew  from  his  hips  to 
his  front  the  pistols  of  his  belt.  The  combat  was  certain  now. 
Boon  Schull,  Frank  James,  Geo.  Todd  and  Fletch  Taylor  led  on 
the  right  just  a  little,  while  further  down  the  line  Anderson,  Ya- 
ger, Gregg,  Jarre tte,  Jesse  James,  Geo.  Maddox  and  Dick  Mad- 
dox  were  slightly  in  advance  of  the  centre  and  left.  The  Fede- 
rals were  a  portion  of  the  9th  Kansas  Cavalry,  and  were  com- 
manded by  Capt.  Thatcher.  The  dust  was  intolerable.  It 
arose  as  a  vast  cloud  and  hid  the  combatants.  Friend  fired  at 
friend,  and  foe  rode  side  by  side  with  foe  afraid  to  shoot.  Boon 
Schnll  had  killed  four  of  the  enemy,  and  in  the  gloom  was  still 
ahead  and  killing  when  he  was  shot  dead  from  the  saddle  by  a 
Federal  trooper.  Mistaking  him  for  a  comrade  and  galloping 
past  in  pursuit,  the  Kansas  man  fired  into  his  back  and  finished 
one  of  the  chosen  ones  of  a  chosen  band.  Frank  James,  close 
behind  him,  saw  the  flash  of  the  Federal's  pistol  in  the  yellow 
cloud  of  the  dust  and  killed  the  Federal  as  he  sat.  Another  fell 
out  from  the  ranks  of  the  Guerrillas  in  the  same  manner,  Al. 
Wyatt,  fighting  as  he  always  fought,  far  in  the  front.  Thatcher 
could  not  make  headway  against  men  who  were  ambi-dextered, 
whose  pistols  seemed  always  to  be  loaded,  who  fired  and  dashed 
ahead,  and  who  seemed  always  to  be  firing  and  dashing  ahead. 
Anderson  raged  as  a  tiger  unloosed.  Todd  fought  as  he  always 
did — C0ol,  smiling,  deadly.  Taylor  with  five  loads  emptied  five 
saddles ;  Jarrette,  hemmed  in  on  a  flank  by  three  troopers,  all 
of  whom  were  shooting  at  him  at  the  same  time,  killed  them  all, 
and  Jesse  James  —  boy  that  he  was  —  won  from  Anderson  the 
remarkable  compliment:  "Not  to  have  any  beard,  he  is  the 
keenest  and  cleanest  fighter  in  the  command."  Gregg,  his 
grave  face  fixed  as  it  was  always  fixed  in  absolute  repose,  added 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  177 

three  to  his  already  long  list,  and  Scott— as  if  conscious  that  he 
was  fighting  his  last  battle — multiplied  his  energy  and  his  prow- 
ess. Eighty  Federals  had  already  fallen,  and  the  wild  rout  was 
already  thundering  away  across  the  prairies  into  Kansas,  pur- 
sued by  devils  who  killed  and  spared  not,  when  a  solid  regiment 
of  infantry  emerged  at  the  double  quick  from  a  line  of  sheltering 
timber  and  formed  in  front  of  it  for  succor.  What  to  the  desert- 
parched  and  scorched  are  green  things  and  running  water,  that 
to  the  remnant  of  the  riven  Ninth  was  the  sheltering  infantry. 
They  ran  through  it,  and  behind  it,  and  formed  in  the  lee  and 
the  rear  of  it ;  but  they  did  not  come  out  again  to  see  the  last 
of  the  wild  beasts  retreating,  baffled  from  a  barrier  they  could 
not  break.  Todd,  knowing  in  an  instant  the  folly  of  further 
fighting,  checked  his  men  and  rearranged  his  ranks.  At  long 
range — almost  a  mile — Scott,  while  calmly  watching  the  enemy, 
was  shot ;  an  Enfield  rifle  ball  had  found  his  heart.  It  was  over 
this  man  that  Todd  wept  when  they  buried  him.  Perhaps  both 
by  nature  and  temperament  no  man  was  better  fitted  for  the  life 
of  a  Guerrilla  than  Fernando  Scott.  Of  a  highly  nervous  and 
sensitive  disposition,  he  slept  little ;  it  was  not  believed  that  he 
ever  experienced  an  emotion  of  physical  fear;  under  fire  no 
soldier  could  be  cooler ;  he  won  the  love  of  his  men  first — later, 
their  adoration ;  thinking  a  great  deal,  he  did  not  talk  much ; 
gentle,  he  scarcely  ever  spoke  harshly;  tender-hearted,  he  very 
rarely  ever  killed  save  in  open  battle.  Above  everything  else 
he  was  true.  Nothing  deterred  him  in  the  line  of  his  duty,  and 
if  he  had  been  ordered  to  blow  up  a  powder-magazine  he  would 
have  blown  it  up  and  himself  with  it. 

Boon  Schull  was  a  Missouri  Murat,  fighting  obscurely  and 
under  a  black  flag.  If  to  ride  always  in  the  advance,  if  to  fight 
single-handed  or  against  any  odds,  if  to  dash  at  anything  and 
grapple  with  anything,  if  to  attract  twice — once  by  his  boyish- 
ness and  once  by  his  desperation — made  him  in  any  manner  to 
approximate  the  great  cavalry  Frenchman,  then  was  Schull  a 
border  Murat,  unforgotten  of  history,  but  a  splendid  type  of  that 
race  of  Southern  soldiers  who,  man  to  man,  could  have  whipped 
the  world. 

Todd  brought  back  tenderly  the  bodies  of  Scott,  Schull  and 
Wyatt,  detailing  to  guard  them  Richard  BelTy,  Fletch  Taylor, 
James  Little,  Frank  James,  John  Ross,  and  Oath  Hinton,  six 
12 


178  NOTED  GUERBILLAS,  OK 

comrades  who,  like  the  dead  ones,  knew  no  fear  and  shrank 
from  no  duty.  Schull's  body  was  taken  to -the  house  of  Mrs. 
Younger,  and  his  relatives,  the  Wallaces,  informed  of  h;s  death. 
Todd  performed  the  last  sad  rites  for  Scott  the  night  of  the  day 
of  the  battle.  As  his  brief  lifetime  had  been  stormy,  so  was  his 
burial.  The  night  was  tempestuous.  The  wrathful  wind  smote 
the  trees  with  the  wings  of  a  great  darkness.  All  the  sky  was  a 
void  ;  nothing  was  there  but  the  unknown.  The  rain,  articulate 
almost  in  its  beating,  fell  upon  the  pallid  face  of  the  sleeping 
man,  uncovered  for  the  last  time,  and  murmured,  it  may  be,  a 
benediction.  The  swirling  torches,  few  and  far  apart,  peopled 
with  spectres  the  shadows  they  disturbed.  No  prayer  was  said ; 
the  good  God  knew  best  of  all  what  had  been  writ  in  the 
everlasting  book  touching  the  dead  Guerrilla,  and  struck  the 
balance  to  the  side  whereon  was  written  courage,  manhood, 
truth. 

At  the  grave  of  Schull  it  was  not  permitted  to  his  comrades 
to  gather  about  and  say  any  word  that  would  serve  to  make  the 
long  journey  shorter  or  the  long  sleep  lighter  in  eternity. 
Federal  troops  were  camped  all  about  the  house,  and  upon  all 
the  roads  leading  to  it.  At  night  as  the  mournful  escort  bore 
the  young  soldier  back  from  the  last  of  his  fields,  it  passed  a 
Federal  bivouac  twenty  paces  from  the  road.  The  cortege, 
however,  was  not  halted,  and  the  grave  was  dug  almost  within 
sight  of  the  camp-fires. 

The  operations  of  the  Guerrillas  now  became  really  formida- 
ble. Scouting  parties  of  the  enemy  were  cut  to  pieces,  picquet 
posts  exterminated,  guards  convoying  foraging  trains  slain 
among  their  wagons,  marching  columns  ambuscaded,  and  heavy 
war  bodies  fired  upon  continually  and  always  at  a  disadvantage. 
Jesse  James  headed  one  squad  and  lay  in  wait  a  whole  day  long 
watching  for  a  fishing  party  They  did  not  come  the  first  day, 
nor  the  second  till  about  noon,  but  James  waited  rationless  and 
got  a  point  blank  volley  into  them  before  he  left,  killing  six  out 
of  eight,  one  of  the  killed  being  a  Lieutenant. 

Frank  James,  Fletch  Taylor,  John  Ross,  Hinton,  Little, 
George  Shepherd,  Poole,  and  Cole  Younger  came  suddenly 
upon  a  foraging  party  of  eight  in  a  large  field  in  the  middle  of 
which  there  was  a  barn.  Pressed  to  the  girth  the  Federals  took 
refuge  in  this  and  began  to  make  a  good  fight  for  their  lives. 


JOHN  JAKRETTE. 


PEYTON  LONG. 


ALLEN  FARMER. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  179 

Taylor  and  James,  covered  by  the  fire  of  their  comrades,  made 
a  desperate  rush  on  the  building,  put  a  lighted  match  to  some 
convenient  hay,  and  soon  the  whole  structure  was  in  flames. 
As  the  enemy  ran  out,  every  one  of  the  eight  was  killed,  two 
falling  back  in  the  barn  and  being  charced  there  beyond  recog- 
nition. 

Jarrette  and  Gregg,  taking  five  men  apiece,  crossed  over  into 
Kansas  on  the  west  of  Westport,  and  hid  themselves  until  the 
darkness  came.  Their  operations  were  confined  principally  to 
the  main  road  between  Leavenworth  and  Kansas  City,  and  their 
first  victims  were  a  sergeant  and  four  men  carrying  dispatches. 
The  whole  party  were  killed,  and  the  dispatches  read  and 
destroyed. 

The  next  thing  to  come  along  in  the  way  of  game  was  an 
ambulance  containing  a  Nebraska  sutler,  the  sutler's  clerk, 
two  artillerymen  from  some  fort  on  the  plains,  and  a  negro 
driver.  The  sutler  was  drunk,  the  sutler's  clerk  was  noisy,  and 
the  two  artillerymen  were  asleep.  Jarrette  called  to  the  driver 
to  halt,  but  the  driver,  suspecting  danger,  whipped  up  his 
horses.  The  drunken  sutler  fired  upon  Jarrette,  with  his  pistol 
almost  touching  him,  and  the  sutler's  clerk  shouted  "Murder!" 
"Murder!"  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Gregg,  galloping  ahead 
and  killing  the  lead  horse  in  the  traces,  had  the  ill- 
assorted  ambulance  load  completely  at  his  mercy.  The  sutler 
and  the  sutler's  clerk  were  killed  with  scarcely  anything  of 
ceremony,  and  the  black  driver  also  for  his  contrariness,  but  the 
artillerymen  were  regulars  and  Irish  regulars  at  that,  and 
Jarrette,  guarding  them  until  daylight,  released  them  without 
a  pledge. 

Scarcely  half  a  mile  further  upon  the  road  there  was  a  house 
that  in  the  old-fashioned  parlance  might  be  called  a  tavern. 
* 'Entertainment  for  man  and  beast,"  were  the  words  painted 
upon  a  board  that  was  nailed  to  a  tree.  uHello!"  cried  Gregg, 
in  advance  with  John  Ross  and  Sim  Whitsett,  "who  keeps 
house?"  The  landlord  came,  a  rubicund  man,  all  affability  and 
belly.  "I  keep  house,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "but  you  must  be 
light  upon  me  to-night,  for  I  am  full."  And  so  he  was.  Two 
men  remained  outside  to  care  for  the  horses,  and  ten  took  a 
stroll  over  the  premises.  In  the  stable  three  Federals  were 
dragged  out  from  a  lot  of  straw,  in  the  kitchen  the  third  one  was 


180  NOTED  GUEEEILLAS,  OH 

cornered,  and  in  five  beds  in  various  parts  of  the  tavern  proper^ 
the  Guerrillas  came  upon  five  more,  big  with  sleep  when 
awakened,  and  helpless  in  proportion  as  they  were  destitute  of 
clothing.  Poor  creatures !  they  were  shivering  as  much  from  the 
cold  as  from  their  fright  w.hen  Jarrette  shot  them  all.  The  land- 
lord went  next,  killed  over  a  horse  he  was  trying  to  save,  and 
then  the  tavern.  Burning  the  tavern,  however,  was  a  serious 
mistake.  The  flames  aroused  a  cavalry  camp  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  to  the  left  of  the  road  in  some  timber,  and  soon  four  com- 
panies came  swarming  out  to  solve  the  problem  of  the  burning. 
Jarrette  was  gone,  but  the  road  was  alive  with  soldiers,  who 
hunted  all  through  the  night  and  until  late  the  next  morning  for 
something  that  would  tell  of  the  invisible  devils  who  for  seventeen 
miles  had  strewn  it  with  corpses. 

Todd,  with  ten  men,  went  back  to  his  old  intrenchments  on 
the  Harrisonville  and  Kansas  City  road  and  hid  himself  for  two 
days  and  nights  completely.  He  let  couriers  go  by,  scouts  go 
by,  detachments  of  various  sizes  go  by,  and  here  and  there  a 
wagon,  and  once  a  piece  of  artillery.  He  did  not  fire  a  single 
pistol  shot.  He  scarcely  allowed  a  man  upon  the  road. 
What  had  come  over  Todd?  this  one  whispered  and  that  one 
whispered;  didn't  he  mean  to  fight?  this  one  asked  and  that 
one  asked.  Somewhere  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  day,  eighteen  Kansas  Red  Legs,  en  route  to  Independence 
to  join  a  battalion  there,  rode  past  the  trenches  singing  and 
swearing.  Out  of  eighteen,  three  got  alive  into  Independence. 
Todd,  informed  before  hand  of  the  marching  of  this  detach- 
ment, waited  thus  grimly  for  its  arrival,  letting  slip  through  his 
fingers  considerable  other  game  not  near  so  valuable  in  the  esti- 
mation of  this  merciless  fighter,  par  excellence,  of  the  border. 

Poole  also  took  a  turn  down  towards  the  Lafayette  county 
line.  West  of  Napoleon  three  miles  there  was  a  spring  at 
which  troops  marching  to  and  fro  along  the  river  road  gen- 
erally stopped  to  drink.  This  spring  broke  out  from  the  bluff  s- 
foot,  was  conveyed  through  some  open  box  work  across  the  little 
stretch  of  level  land  between  the  bluff  and  the  road,  and  made 
to  fall  in  a  huge  tank  just  at  the  upper  verge  of  the  dusty  high- 
way. Poole  knew  it  well,  a  grateful  oasis  for  thirsty  cavalry- 
men. Above  the  tank  was  the  bluff,  and  above  the  bluff  exceed- 
ingly heavy  timber.  Ambushed,  Poole  waited  all  one  night  and 


DAVE  POOLE. 


E.  P.  DE  HART. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  181 

until  noon  the  next  day,  for  what  fortune  might  send  to  the 
cooling  water.  He  had  thirty  good  men  at  his  beck  and  call, 
and  he  had  the  timber.  No  picquets  were  out  at  either  end  of 
the  road,  and  none  were  necessary.  It  had  never  happened 
before  that  the  spring  was  ambuscaded.  Huston's  regiment 
held  Lexington,  a  regiment  of  regular  militia  with  fair  reputa- 
tion for  fighting,  and  soins  attainments  as  soldiers  in  battle. 
Eighty-four,  commanded  by  a  Captain,  stopped  at  the  spring  to 
drink  themselves  and  let  their  horses  drink.  From  the  trees, 
behind  which  Poole  and  his  men  were  hiding  to  the  tank  upon 
the  roadside,  it  was  probably  fifty  paces,  the  plunging  fire  the 
Guerrillas  were  possessed  of,  making  if  anything  this  distance 
shorter  and  deadlier.  As  the  Federals  approached  the  watering- 
place  they  broke  ranks  without  an  order  and  hurried  forward 
altogether  and  crowded.  The  men  were  thirsty  and  the  beasts 
were  thirsty.  Forty  of  the  eighty  horses  had  their  heads 
together  in  the  tank,  while  their  riders,  busy  at  the  trough  above, 
were  stooping  and  drinking  leisurely.  The  woods  blazed,  the 
water  was  bloody,  the  oasis  became  a  graveyard.  After  the 
carbines  had  commenced  the  work,  the  revolvers  finished  it. 
Twenty-seven  lay  dead  where  they  had  dismounted,  six  more 
perished  in  the  pursuit,  and  eleven,  badly  wounded,  were  spared 
by  Poole  because  of  the  regiment's  name  for  fairness  and  toler- 
ant behavior. 

All  these  blows,  coming  so  thick,  and  so  fast,  and  so  close 
together,  bred  something  like  a  cry  of  wrath  along  the  border. 
Gen.  Thomas  Ewing  was  in  command,  and  he  swore  a  great 
Democratic  oath  that  until  the  prairies  were  made  red  with  the 
blood  of  the  bushwhackers  he  would  keep  daily  in  the  saddle  a 
thousand  horsemen.  To  the  threat  Quantrell  replied  by  a  con- 
centration. Jarrette,  Younger,  Yager,  and  Kailey  were  on  Big 
Creek,  in  Cass  county.  Todd  was  in  Jackson.  Tom  Talley, 
Cole  Younger,  and  Ed  Hink  were  the  messengers  chosen  to 
speed  the  time  and  place  of  rendezvous.  Jarrette,  before 
further  operations  commenced,  reorganized  his  company.  Cole- 
man  Younger  was  elected  First  Lieutenant ;  Joseph  Lee,  Sec- 
ond ;  Lon  Railey,  Third,  and  John  Webster,  Orderly  Sergeant, 
The  roll  was  called  and  eighty  men  answered  to  their  names. 
Todd,  at  the  house  of  William  Hopkins,  on  Little  Blue,  also 


182  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

reorganized.  Fletcher  Taylor  was  elected  First  Lieutenant, 
James  Little,  Second;  William  Anderson,  Third,  and  Isaac 
Berry,  Orderly  Sergeant.  Anderson,  be  it  remembered,  com- 
menced under  Todd  thai  career  which  was  to  horrify  the  country. 
Capt.  Richard  Yager  marshalled  his  men  on  Big  Blue  at  the  farm 
of  his  father,  and  on  the  night  of  July  14th,  1863,  Yager,  Jar- 
rette  and  Todd  met  Quantrell  at  the  Edmond  Coward  farm,  a 
famous  Guerrilla  mustering-place.  The  Cowards  were  all  patri- 
ots and  all  soldiers.  They  belonged  to  that  indomitable  class  of 
citizens  in  Jackson  county  whom  no  terror  could  affright  nor 
persecution  intimidate.  Volunteers  for  the  war,  the  war  might 
lake  goods,  houses,  shelter,  substance,  everything;  but  never 
the  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end. 

From  Coward's  Quantrell  marched  to  meet  Poole,  Blunt  and 
McGrew  at  David  George's,  another  favorite  mustering-place, 
and  then  due  east  for  an  hour  or  two.  He  was  hunting  for 
Borne  of  E wing's  one  thousand  horsemen,  perhaps  for  all  of 
them.  As  he  approached  the  Blue  Springs  and  Pleasant  Hill 
road  a  long  line  to  the  left  told  him  quickly  that  there  was 
work  to  be  done.  Quantrell  sent  Todd  and  Little  forward  at 
once  to  uncover  the  line.  Two  Federals  rode  out  to  meet 
them  promptly  and  halted  at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards. 
Quoth  Todd:  "Who  are  you?"  "It  is  Major  Ransom,  with 
four  hundred  men  and  two  pieces  of  artillery."  "Your  busi- 
eness?"  "Looking  for  that  d — d  scoundrel  Quantrell,  and 
QuantrelPs  cut- throats  and  thieves."  "Well  you  can  find 
them,  I  reckon ;  but  you  express  yourself  too  freely.  You  are 
not  polite."  At  Todd's  order,  Little  then  rode  rapidly  to 
Quantrell,  reporting  the  exact  condition  of  affairs  and  asking 
for  twenty  men  to  skirmish  with  the  enemy.  Quantrell  sent 
him  the  desired  number  under  Lieutenant  Coleman  Younger, 
who  took  with  him  Jesse  and  Frank  James,  George  and  Richard 
Maddox,  George  Wigginton,  Sim  Whitsett,  Tom  Talley,  and 
other  spirits  just  as  choice  and  dashing.  Todd,  seeing  at  his 
back  so  many  of  those  who  had  followed  him  in  fifty  desperate 
combats,  ordered  a  charge  immediately  and  led  it  furiously. 
The  Federals  advanced,  astonished  at  the  unexpected  audacity 
of  the  rush,  were  cut  to  pieces  and  scattered.  Before  they 
could  get  safely  to  the  shelter  of  the  covering  column  fifteen 
had  been  killed  and  a  dozen  wounded.  In  the  race  Sim 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  183 

Whitsett  was  seen  to  shoot  three,  and  the  two  Jameses  three 
each.  Todd,  being  better  mounted  than  any  of  his  company, 
killed  four.  Ransom  unlimbered  his  artillery,  notwithstanding 
the  heavy  odds  he  held  against  Quantrell,  and  opened  upon 
the  twenty  Guerrillas  Todd  held  in  front  of  him.  Quantrell 
retreated,  and  Ransom  followed  slowly.  Step  by  step  Quantrell 
led  him  on  to  the  Sni,  past  the  old  rendezvous-ground  at 
David  George's,  and  past  the  camp  of  the  day  before.  Cou- 
riers, sent  early  to  Poole,  Blunt  and  Gregg,  had  ordered  them  to 
take  position  at  a  crossing  upon  the  Sni,  to  hide  themselves,  and 
hold  it.  Todd  fought  and  fell  back ;  Quantrell  relieved  Todd 
and  fought  and  fell  back ;  Ransom  crept  on  leisurely,  feeling 
his  way  as  he  crept  and  firing  his  cannon  from  every  hill-top 
and  valley.  Finally  Ransom  halted  for  dinner,  and  Quantrell 
halted  in  watching  distance.  The  next  step  was  to  the  ford, 
and  Quantrell  passed  on  through,  halting  on  the  ground  beyond 
and  forming  line  of  battle.  Ransom  followed,  slow  but  dogged. 
The  Sni  was  full,  many  had  crossed  over  and  were  waiting  for 
those  behind  to  close  up,  the  thither  bank  was  blue  with  uni- 
forms when  Poole  poured  out  from  his  ambuscade  a  terrible 
fire,  and  Quantrell  charged  down  upon  the  demoralized  and 
disorded  mass.  The  fight  was  brief  but  bloody.  Ransom  tried 
to  keep  hold  upon  the  timber  and  rally  his  men  about  the 
artillery,  but  they  broke  away  from  his  grasp  and  forced  him 
to  fall  back  rapidly  towards  'Independence,  Todd  taking  the 
advance  again  and  driving  everything  before  him.  Quantrell 
pursued  until  Ransom,  under  the  shelter  of  his  fortified  post, 
saw  his  roughly  handled  troops  drop  from  their  horses  utterly 
used  up  and  exhausted.  His  loss  he  afterwards  admitted  to  be 
fifty-eight ;  the  Guerrillas  figured  it  up  to  seventy-three.  After 
this  fight  Quantrell  took  position  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pink 
Hill  and  called  a  council  of  his  officers  as  to  the  advisability  of 
attacking  Lexington.  The  vote  upon  the  proposition  was  a  tie 
— Jarrette,  Younger,  and  Todd  voting  against  the  attack,  and 
Anderson,  Poole,  and  Gregg  in  favor  of  it.  Poole  and  Ander- 
son especially  urged  the  attack,  Poole  pledging  himself  to  lead 
the  advance  and  deliver  his  first  volley  in  front  of  the  city  hotel. 
He  was  overruled.  Lexington  was  a  fortified  place,  held  by  a 
large  garrison,  and  an  assault  upon  it  was  a  risk  that  the  cooler 
heads  among  the  Guerrillas  were  not  willing  to  take ;  the  con- 


184  NOTED  GUEKBILLAS,  OR 

centrated  command,  therefore,  separated  again,  or  rather  dis- 
banded for  fifteen  days.  Lee  went  to  Saline  county,  attacked 
Brownsville,  captured  its  garrison  of  twenty  militia,  and 
operated  successfully  in  its  vicinity  for  nearly  a  week.  Captain 
Joseph  A.  Lee,  one  of  the  most  dashing  and  successful  soldiers 
the  war  produced,  was  a  young  man  as  modest  as  he  was  brave. 
He  made  military  honor  his  guiding  star,  and  fought  always  as 
a  knight  whose  lineage  was  high  and  whose  escutcheon  was  spot- 
less. Surrounded  by  desperate  circumstances,  and  called  upon 
oftentimes  to  do  desperate  things,  he  had  wisdom  allied  to  valor, 
and  he  knew  how  equally  to  struggle,  to  submit,  to  rise  again 
from  prostration  refreshed  like  a  giant,  and  to  manifest  that 
species  of  heroic  endurance  which,  whenever  everything  else 
fails,  always  knows  how  to  die.  Poole  went  to  Lafayette 
county,  Jarrette  to  the  Sni  Hills,  Younger  to  Big  Creek,  Todd 
and  Quantrell  to  Jackson  county,  Gregg  to  the  Little  Blue, 
Yager  to  the  neighborhood  of  Westport,  and  Anderson  into 
Kansas.  The  old  savage  work  of  isolation  and  ambuscade  com- 
menced again.  Dead  men  were  everywhere.  The  militia  and 
the  Jayhawkers  preyed  upon  the  citizens  and  the  non-combat- 
,'ants,  and  the  Guerrillas  preyed  upon  the  militia  and  the  Jay- 
hawkers.  To  the  sword  the  torch  had  been  added.  Two  hun- 
dred houses  in  Jackson  county  had  been  burnt ;  Vernon  county 
was  a  desert ;  a  day's  ride  in  Bates  brought  no  sight  of  a  habita- 
tion; Cass  was  well  nigh  ruined;  a  black  swathe  had  been 
mowed  through  Lafayette ;  Butler  was  in  ashes ;  Harrisonville 
was  in  ashes ;  armed  men  met  in  the  woods,  by  the  streams, 
along  the  highways ;  there  were  musket-shots,  pistol-shots,  cries, 
the  shouts  of  struggling  men,  smoke  by  day  and  flames  by 
night ;  the  soldiers  hated  one  another ;  there  was  no  quarter ; 
hogs  fed  upon  human  flesh ;  Ewing's  one  thousand  cavalrymen 
were  in  the  saddle ;  the  black  flag  had  been  lifted ;  the  face 
of  the  good  God  seemed  to  be  turned  away  from  the  border ; 
the  Lawrence  Massacre  was  making  head. 

Anderson,  taking  with  him  twenty  men,  made  a  dash  into 
Kansas,  circled  Olathe,  and  came  upon  a  skeleton  camp  of  in- 
fantry numbering  thirty- eight.  He  charged  the  camp  and 
slaughtered  every  human  male  thing  about  it.  He  fired  the 
tents  and  the  wagons,  appropriated  the  horses,  let  the  loose 
women  go  free,  and  hurried  out  after  a  foraging  party  which 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  185 

had  been  gone  from  the  camp  an  hour.  It  was  found  in  a  barn- 
lot  loading  six  wagons  with  oats  and  corn.  To  each  wagon  there 
were  four  men,  who  had  not  even  brought  their  arms  with  them, 
and  they  tried  to  surrender.  No  use!  Back  safe  from  the  jaws 
of  a  famishing  tiger  might  rather  the  stricken  deer  hope  to  come 
than  any  Kansas  man  from  the  hands  of  Bill  Anderson.  He  killed 
the  soldiers  first,  next  the  teamsters,  and  then  the  farmer  who 
owned  the  corn,  and  two  of  his  sons  who  were  at  home  from 
the  army  on  furlough.  The  country  was  up  and  after  him.  It 
was  sixty  miles  to  shelter,  and  upon  every  mile  of  that  distance 
Anderson  stood  and  fought,  escaping  finally  after  inflicting 
serious  loss  upon  his  pursuers  and  losing  himself  in  killed  seven 
of  his  bravest  men. 

At  Blue  Mills  ferry  Captain  Parker  crossed  into  Clay  county 
with  ten  men,  rode  rapidly  to  Liberty  and  charged  the  town. 
Captain  Henry  Hubbard  commanded  the  post,  its  garrison  con- 
sisting of  twenty-five  men.  Hubbard  was  badly  wounded,  and 
an  old  negro  by  the  name  of  Washington  Dale  hid  him  securely 
under  some  hay  in  the  loft  of  a  livery  stable.  With  Parker  was 
a  young  soldier,  Harvey  Turner,  who  was  surrounded  the  next 
day  at  the  house  of  a  Mrs.  Carroll  by  sixty  militia,  a  portion  of 
Penick's  regiment.  All  along  the  line  in  those  days  the  watch- 
word was:  "No  surrender,"  and  Turner  rushed  from  the  house 
to  his  horse,  firing  right  and  left  as  he  ran.  Sixty  Federals 
shot  at  him  from  every  conceivable  direction,  but  he  killed  one, 
wounded  another,  and  escaped,  joining  Parker  the  next  day 
without  even  the  smell  of  fire  upon  his  garments.  The  Liberty 
militia  were  not  killed,  as  they  had  nothing  in  common  with 
those  across  the  river;  but  two  of  them — Wash  Huffaker  and 
D.  Hubbard — were  taken  into  Jackson  county  and  investigated. 
Charges  touching  their  behavior  towards  certain  r.on-combat- 
ants  had  been  freely  circulated,  but  not  being  substantiated 
upon  investigation,  Parker  paroled  them  later  and  released 
them. 

Parker  next,  in  company  with  Cole  Younger,  Joe  Lee,  Joe 
Hall,  Richard  Kenney  and  Charles  Sanders,  made  a  dash  into 
Wellington  where  ten  Federals  were  robbing  a  store.  Parker 
was  killed  in  the  attack  upon  the  town,  but  his  comrades 
avenged  him.  Not  a  man  of  the  ten  escaped,  and  the  Guerril- 
las remained  during  the  day  and  until  late  at  night,  compli- 


186  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

mented  by  the  citizens  and  feasted  as  well.  The  road  west 
from  Wellington  runs  between  the  bluff  and  the  river,  and  as 
the  Guerrillas  rode  along  under  the  stars,  glad  from  so  much 
social  relaxation  and  pleasure,  five  stalwart  forms  rose  up 
behind  them  in  the  road  and  fired  a  signal  volley.  Instantly 
the  bank  next  to  the  river  was  alive  with  Federals,  and  the  air 
thick  with  bullets.  Seventy  men  had  ambushed  five,  such  at 
that  time  was  the  terror  of  Quantrell's  name,  and  left  at  the 
same  time  an  open  space  for  them  to  get  out  at.  Not  slow 
to  avail  themselves  of  an  opportunity  so  considerately  made, 
the  Guerrillas  dashed  ahead  like  the  wind,  taking  the  fire  of  the 
whole  line  as  they  ran  past  it,  and  taking  it  without  a  scratch. 
Later,  a  solitary  militiaman  rode  into  their  ranks,  made  himself 
known,  and  was  shot  dead  by  Kinney  for  his  confidence. 

The  fifteen  days  of  disbandment  were  on  the  eve  of  expiration. 
A  supply  of  ammunition  ample  for  all  purposes  had  been  pro- 
cured, and  cartridges  enough  made  for  a  week  of  constant 
fighting.  An  expedition  of  an  extraordinary  character  was 
about  to  be  inaugurated.  The  Guerrillas  were  beginning  to 
concentrate.  The  strife  in  Jackson  county  had  been  particularly 
savage  of  late.  Many  inoffensive  citizens  had  been  killed.  Mr. 
Laws,  an  old  resident,  for  feeding  a  squad  of  Federals  disguised 
as  Guerrillas,  was  shot  by  the  order  of  Major  W.  C.  Ransom,  a 
Kansas  Federal.  Capt.  Hoyt,  another  Kansas  officer,  rode  into 
Westport  one  day,  took  Philip  Bucher  from  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren, marched  him  out  on  the  commons,  made  him  kneel  down 
and  shot  him.  Henry  Rout,  another  quiet  citizen,  was  hung. 
Another  Kansas  officer,  while  out  on  a  scouting  expedition, 
wounded  and  captured  an  old  man  who  was  hunting  stock. 
Lest  he  should  suffer  some  from  his  wounds,  this  considerate 
officer  finished  him  with  a  pistol  bullet.  A  detachment  of 
Kansas  soldiers  were  sent  out  on  the  Big  Blue  to  arrest  three 
men.  The  men  were  not  at  home,  but  their  wives  were. 
These — arrested  and  forced  to  walk  into  Kansas  City,  a  distance 
of  thirteen  miles — were  put  into  a  brick  building  with  a  door 
which  was  locked  upon  the  outside.  That  night  the  building, 
undermined,  fell,  and  the  next  day  the  mangled  bodies  of  the 
innocent  women  were  boxed  up  and  sent  back  to  their  homes  in 
an  old  ox  wagon.  Just  look  at  the  list:  A  son  of  Henry 
Morris,  only  fourteen  years  old,  was  killed  by  Penick's  troops 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  187 

in  Independence.  Henry  Morris  lived  five  miles  north  of 
Lone  Jack.  Big  Jim  Cummins  was  killed,  and  little  Jim 
Cummins.  Little  Jim  Cummins  had  been  wounded  at  Lone 
Jack,  but  had  recovered.  John  Phillips  was  hung.  James 
Saunders  and  Jeptha  Crawford  were  taken  from  Blue  Springs 
and  shot.  Their  houses  were  also  burned.  One  of  Penick's 
men,  calling  himself  Jim  Lane,  killed  Dr.  Triggs  for  his  money. 
Kimberlin  was  arrested,  carried  to  Independence,  sent  back 
home  under  a  guard  and  hung  in  his  barn.  Moses  Carr  was 
also  arrested,  carried  to  Independence,  sent  back  again  towards 
his  home,  but  before  reaching  it  he  was  tied  to  a  tree  in  Blue 
Bottom  and  shot  to  pieces.  Sam  Jones  was  hung,  an  old  man 
named  Doty  was  hung,  George  Tyler  was  shot,  as  were  Hedrick 
and  Somers  of  Cass  county,  Samuels  of  Bates,  Peters,  Monroe, 
Farwell  and  Lowers,  of  Vernon,  and  Givens,  Manches  ter,  Boi- 
ling, Newton,  Beamish,  Parker  and  Rails,  of  Jackson.  Over 
two  hundred  more  were  killed  in  the  three  months  preceding 
the  Lawrence  Massacre.  In  mid-winter  houses  were  burned  by 
the  hundred  and  whole  neighborhoods  devastated  and  laid 
waste.  Aroused  as  he  never  had  been  before,  Quantrell  med- 
itated a  terrible  vengeance. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

LAWRENCE. 

ON  Blackwater,  in  Johnson  county,  and  at  the  house  of  Cap- 
tain Purdee,  Quantrell  called  the  Guerrillas  together  for  the 
Lawrence  Massacre.  Todd,  Jarrette,  Blunt,  Gregg,  Anderson, 
Yager,  Younger,  Estis  and  Holt,  all  were  there,  and  when  the 
roll  was  called  three  hundred  and  ten  answered  promptly  to 
their  names.  Up  to  the  mustering  hour  Quantrell  had  probably 
not  let  his  left  hand  know  what  his  right  hand  had  intended. 
Secrecy  necessarily  was  to  be  the  salvation  of  the  expedition, 
if  indeed  there  was  any  salvation  for  it.  The  rendezvous  night 
was  an  August  night — a  blessed,  balmy,  mid-summer  night — 
just  such  a  night  as  would  be  chosen  to  give  force  to  reflections 
and  permit  the  secrets  of  the  soul  to  escape.  The  sultry  sum- 
mer day  had  lain  swarthy  in  the  sun  and  panting ;  the  sultry 
summer  winds  had  whispered  nothing  of  the  shadowy  woods, 
nothing  of  the  babble  of  unseen  brooks.  Birds  spoke  good-bye 
to  birds  in  the  tree-tops,  and  the  foliage  was  filled  with  the 
twilight.  Grouped  about  him,  Quantrell  sat  grave  and  calm 
in  the  midst  of  his  chieftains.  Further  away  where  the  shadows 
were,  the  men  massed  themselves  in  silent  companies  or  spoke 
low  to  one  another  and  briefly.  Something  of  a  foreboding, 
occult  though  it  was  and  indefinable,  made  itself  manifest.  The 
shadow  of  a  great  tragedy  was  impending. 

Without  in  the  least  degree  increasing  or  decreasing  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  undertaking,  Quantrell  laid  before  his  officers  his 
plan  for  attacking  Lawrence.  For  a  week  a  man  of  the  com- 
mand— a  cool,  bold,  plausible,  desperate  man — had  been  in 
the  city — through  it,  over  it,  about  it,  and  around  it — and  he 
was  here  in  the  midst  of  them  to  report.  Would  they  listen  to 
him?  "Let  him  speak/'  said  Todd,  sententiously.  Lieuten- 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  189 

ant  Fletcher  Taylor  came  out  from  the  shadow,  bowed  gravely 
to  the  group,  and  with  the  brevity  of  -a  soldier  who  knew  better 
how  to  fight  than  to  talk,  laid  bare  the  situation.  Disguised  as 
a  stock  trader,  or,  rather  assuming  the  role  of  a  speculating 
man,  he  had  boldly  entered  Lawrence.  Liberal,  bountifully 
supplied  with  money,  keeping  open  rooms  at  the  Eldridge 
House,  and  agreeable  in  every  way  and  upon  every  occasion,  he 
had  seen  all  that  it  was  necessary  to  see,  and  learned  all  that 
could  be  of  any  possible  advantage  to  the  Guerrillas.  The  city 
proper  was  but  weakly  garrisoned ;  the  camp  beyond  the  river 
was  not  strong ;  the  idea  of  a  raid  by  Quantrell  was  honestly 
derided ;  supineness  next  to  unbelief  was  the  most  predominant 
madness  of  the  people ;  the  streets  were  broad  and  good  for 
charging  horsemen,  and  the  hour  for  the  venture  was  near 
at  hand. 

"You  have  heard  the  report,"  Quantrell's  deep  voice  broke 
in,  "but  before  you  decide  it  is  proper  that  you  should  know  it 
all.  The  march  to  Lawrence  is  a  long  one  ;  in  every  little  town 
there  are  soldiers;  we  leave  soldiers  behind  us;  we  march 
through  soldiers ;  we  attack  the  town  garrisoned  by  soldiers ; 
we  retreat  through  soldiers ;  and  when  we  would  rest  and  refit 
after  the  exhaustive  expedition,  we  have  to  do  the  best  we  can 
in  the  midst  of  a  multitude  of  soldiers.  Come,  speak  out, 
somebody.  What  is  it,  Anderson?"  "Lawrence  or  hell,  but 
with  one  proviso,  that  we  kill  every  male  thing."  "Todd?" 
"Lawrence,  if  I  knew  that  not  a  man  would  get  back  alive." 
"Gregg?"  "Lawrence;  it  is  the  home  of  Jim  Lane;  the 
foster  mother  of  the  Red  Legs ;  the  nurse  of  the  Jayhawkers." 
"Shepherd?"  "Lawrence  ;  I  know  it  of  old  ;  niggers  and  white 
people  are  just  the  same  there;  it's  a  Boston  colony  and  it 
should  be  wiped-  out."  "Jarrette?"  "Lawrence,  by  all 
means.  I've  had  my  eye  upon  it  for  a  year.  The  head  devil  of 
all  this  killing  and  burning  in  Jackson  county,  I  vote  to  fight  it 
with  fire— to  burn  it  before  we  leave  it."  "Dick  Maddox?" 
"Lawrence ;  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth ;  God 
understands  better  than  we  do  the  equilibrium  of  civil  war." 
"Holt?"  "Lawrence;  and  quick  about  it."  "Yager?" 
"Where  my  house  once  stood  there  is  a  heap  of  ashes.  I 
haven't  a  neighbor  that's  got  a  house — Lawrence  and  the  torch." 
"Blunt?"  "Count  me  in  whenever  there's  killing.  Lawrence 


190  NOTED  GUEBBILLAS,  OE 

first,  and  then  some  other  Kansas  town;  the  name  is  nothing.'5 
4 'Have  you  all  voted?'*  "All."  "Then  Lawrence  it  is;  saddle 
up,  men!"  Thus  was  the  Lawrence  Massacre  inaugurated. 

Was  it  justifiable?  Is  there  much  of  anything  that  is  justifi- 
able in  civil  war:  Two  civilizations  struggled  for  mastery,  with 
only  that  imaginary  thing,  a  state  line,  between  thejn.  On 
either  side  the  soldiers  were  not  as  soldiers  who  fight  for  a  king, 
for  a  crown,  for  a  country,  for  an  idea,  for  glory.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  every  combat  was  an  intense  hatred.  Little  by  little 
there  became  prominent  that  feature  of  savage  atrocity  which 
slew  the  wounded,  slaughtered  the  prisoners,  and  sometimes 
mutilated  the  dead.  Originally,  the  Jayhawkers  in  Kansas  had 
been  very  poor.  They  coveted  the  goods  of  their  Missouri 
neighbors,  made  wealthy  or  well-to-do  by  prosperous  years  of 
peace  and  African  slavery.  Before  they  became  soldiers  they 
had  been  brigands,  and  before  they  destroyed  houses  in  the 
name  of  retaliation  they  had  plundered  them  at  the  instance  of 
individual  greed.  The  first  Federal  officers  operating  in  Kansas 
-T-tbat  is  to  say,  those  who  belonged  to  the  State — were  land 
pirates  or  pilferers.  Lane  was  a  wholesale  plunderer;  Jennison, 
in  the  scaly  gradation,  stood  next  to  Lane;  Anthony  next  to 
Jennison;  Montgomery  next  to  Anthony;  Ransom  next  to 
Montgomery ;  and  so  on  down  and  down  until  it  reached  to  the 
turn  of  the  captains,  lieutenants,  sergeants,  corporals,  and  pri- 
vates. Stock  in  herds,  flocks,  droves,  and  multitudes  were 
driven  from  Missouri  into  Kansas.  Houses  gave  up  their  furni- 
ure ;  women  their  jewelry ;  children  their  wearing  apparel ; 
store-rooms  their  contents ;  the  land  its  crops ;  the  banks  their 
deposits.  To  robbery  was  added  murder,  to  murder  arson,  and 
to  arson  depopulation.  Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  the  Mis- 
sourian  whose  father  was  killed  should  kill  in  return?  Whose 
house  was  burnt  should  burn  in  return?  Whose  property  was 
plundered,  should  pillage  in  return?  Whose  life  was  made 
miserable,  should  hunt  as  a  wild  beast  and  rend  accordingly? 
Many  such  were  in  Quantrell's  command — many  whose  lives 
were  blighted ;  who  in  a  night  were*  made  orphans  and  paupers ; 
who  saw  the  labor  and  accumulation  of  years  swept  away  in  an 
hour  of  wanton  destruction ;  who  for  no  reason  on  earth  save 
that  they  were  Missourians,  were  hunted  from  hiding-place  to 
hiding-place ;  who  were  preyed  upon  while  a  single  cow  remained 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  191 

or  a  single  shock  of  grain ;  who  were  shot  at,  outlawed,  bedev- 
iled and  proscribed,  and  who,  no  matter  whether  Union  or 
Disunion,  were  permitted  to  have  neither  a  flag  nor  a  country. 

Yes ;  there  was  a  flag  left  to  them.  The  Guerrillas,  eager  to 
shake  off  something  of  a  feeling  of  oppression  that  had  come 
unaccountably  to  some  of  the  command,  got  rapidly  to  horse 
and  formed  as  rapidly  into  column.  Then  for  the  first  time  the 
black  banner  was  unfurled.  In  the  centre  of  it,  and  neatly 
worked  with  red  silk  was  the  single  word  "Quantrell."  As  its 
'  outlines  in  the  night  could  be  imperfectly  seen,  and  as  the  men 
caught  the  meaning  of  the  sombre  banner,  waving  in  the  night 
wind  as  something  spectral  and  alive,  a  cheer  broke  forth 
impetuously  from  every  Guerrilla.  The  wish  was  interpreted, 
which  all  felt  to  be  righteous,  but  which  none  had  ever  before 
uttered  even  in  a  whisper.  It  had  voice  and  utterance  now. 
The  border  had  not  only  found  a  chief,  but  it  also  had  found  a 
banner.  Thereafter,  if  when  going  into  battle  Quantrell  unfurled 
this  flag,  nothing  lived  that  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Guerrillas ; 
if  it  were  not  unfurled,  the  fight  took  its  chances,  and  the  vic- 
tims their  chances  with  it. 

It  was  the  summer  night  of  August  16th,  1863,  that  the  Guer- 
rilla column,  having  at  its  head  this  ominous  banner,  marched 
west  from  Purdee's  place  on  Blackwater.  With  it  as  simple  sol- 
diers, or,  rather  volunteers  for  the  expedition,  were  Colonels 
Joseph  Holt  and  Boaz  Boberts.  Officers  of  the  regular  Confed- 
erate army,  they  were  in  Missouri  on  recruiting  service  when 
the  ra'arch  began,  and  fell  into  line  as  much  from  habit  as  from 
inclination. 

The  first  camp  made  was  upon  a  stream  midway  between 
Pleasant  Hill  and  Lone  Jack,  where  the  water  was  good  and  the 
hiding  place  excellent.  All  day  Quantrell  concealed  himself 
here,  getting  to  saddle  just  at  dark  and  ordering  Tood  up  from 
the  rear  to  the  advance.  Passing  Pleasant  Hill  to  the  north  and 
marching  on  rapidly  fifteen  miles,  the  second  camp  was  at  Har- 
relson's,  twenty-five  miles  from  the  place  of  starting.  At  three 
o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  the  route  was 
resumed  and  followed  due  west  to  the  Aubrey,  a  pleasant  Kan- 
sas stream,  abounding  in  grass  and  timber.  Here  Quantrell 
halted  until  the  darkness  set  in,  feeding  the  horses  well  and  per- 
mitting the  men  to  cook  and  eat  heartily.  At  eight  o'clock  the 


192  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

march  commenced  again  and  continued  on  throughout  the 
night,  in  the  direction  of  Lawrence.  Three  pilots  were  pressed 
into  service,  carried  with  the  command  as  far  as  they  knew 
aught  of  the  road  or  the  country,  and  then  shot  down  remorse- 
lessly in  the  nearest  timber. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twenty-first,  Lawrence  was  in  si»ht. 
An  old  man,  a  short  distance  upon  the  right  of  the  road,  was 
feeding  his  hogs  in  the  gray  dawn,  the  first  person  seen  to  stir 
about  the  doomed  place.  Quantrell  sent  Cole  Younger  over  to 
the  hog-pen  to  catechize  the  industrious  old  farmer  and  learn 
from  him  what  changes  had  taken  place  in  the  situation  since 
Taylor  had  so  thoroughly  accomplished  his  mission.  Younger, 
dressed  as  a  Federal  Lieutenant,  exhausted  speedily  the  old 
man's  limited  stock.  Really  but  little  change  had  taken  place. 
Across  the  Kansas  river  there  were  probably  four  hundred  sol- 
diers in  camp,  and  on  the  Lawrence  side  about  seventy-five.  As 
for  the  rebels,  he  didn't  suppose  there  was  one  nearer  than  Mis- 
souri ;  certainly  none  within  striking  distance  of  Lawrence. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning.  The  green  of  the  fields  and  the 
blue  of  the  sky  were  glad  together.  Birds  sang  everywhere. 
The  footsteps  of  autumn  had  not  yet  been  heard  in  the  land. 
Nowhere  through  the  nights  had  any  one  seen  the  creeping  of 
its  stealthy  vanguard,  stiffening  the  grass  blades,  making  mute- 
the  melodies  of  the  streams,  and  putting  a  pallor  as  of  death 
over  all  the  landscape.  The  dawn  of  the  delicious  morning 
stirred  the  blood  like  wine.  .Everything  was  in  harmony — the 
lowing  of  the  cattle,  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  the  smoke  curl- 
ing up  as  incense  offered  to  propitious  nature,  the  haze  in  the 
east,  the  earth  which  smelt  sweet,  the  rippling  of  the  South 
wind,  the  placid  city  asleep  in  the  balm  of  its  verdure  and  the 
blessings  of  its  trees. 

4 'Form  fours!"  The  column  agitated  itself  as  though  stirred 
by  an  electrical  impulse,  galloped  a  little  to  the  right  and  left, 
reined  up  and  dressed  up,  and  looked  as  though  a  massive  wedge 
had  'fallen  there  with  the  blunt  point  turned  towards  Lawrence. 

^Near  Mount  Orlad,  which  rises  in  beauty  up  from  the  lower 
country  at  the  southwestern  edge  of  the  city,  a  lady  and 
gentleman  rode  leisurely  along  to  enjoy  the  morning  breeze 
and  view  the  splendors  of  the  rising  sun.  As  they  rode  they 
laughed  long  and  lightsomely.  Into  the  blood  of  each  also- 


THE  WAEFABE  OF  THE  BOEDER  193 

some  wine  of  the  morning  dawn  had  gone,  and  the  woman's 
face  was  flushed  and  the  man's  expectant.  What  between  the 
two  had  been  said  there,  only  the  blue  sky  knew  overhead  and 
the  singing  birds  singing  around. 

"Look!"  and  the  bloom  had  fled  from  the  woman's  face  and 
the  tenderness  from  her  eyes  as  she  pointed  to  the  southwest, 
and  to  the  blunt  wedge  there,  and  to  the  black  flag  waving  in 
the  summer  wind.  The  man  looked  and  saw  the  wedge  trans- 
form itself  into  a  column,  and  the  column  dash  at  the  town. 
Then  he  heard  shots,  shrieks,  the  rush  of  horsemen,  the  roar  of 
revolver  vollies,  and  then — bidden  by  the  brave  young  girl  to- 
do  so — this  man  dashed  away  into  the  open  country,  pursued 
by  two  of  Quantrell's  worst  Guerrillas.  Run  out  of  two  corn- 
fields, across  a  dozen  fences,  and  from  hiding-place  to  hiding- 
place,  he  finally  baffled  his  pursuers  and  survived  the  slaughter. 
His  name  was  John  Donnelly,  and  he  lives  to-day  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  what  trivial  circumstances  go  sometimes  to  make  up  the; 
warp  and  woof  of  human  life. 

uThe  camp  first!"  was  the  cry  which  ran  through  the  ranks, 
and  Todd,  leading  Quantrell's  old  company,  dashed  down  upon 
it  yelling  and  shooting.  Scarcely  any  resistance  was  made. 
Surprised,  ridden  over,  shot  in  their  blankets,  paralyzed,  some 
of  them,  with  terror,  and  running  frantically  about,  what  could 
they  do  against  the  quickest  and  deadliest  pistol  shots  along  the 
border?  Bill  Anderson  claimed  as  his  share  of  the  killing,  and 
in  the  count  afterwards  the  number  was  allowed  to  himr 
fourteen  soldiers  and  citizens.  Todd,  Jarrette,  Anderson,. 
Little,  Andy  McGuire,  Peyton  Long,  William  McGuirer 
Richard  Kinney,  Allen  Farmer,  Jesse  James,  Frank  James, 
Archie  Clements,  Shepherd,  Oath  Hinton,  Blunt  and  the- 
balance  of  the  old  men  did  the  most  of  the  killing.  They  went 
for  revenge  and  they  took  it.  Some  plundered — these  men 
killed.  They  all  burned.  The  Federals  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river  made  scarcely  any  attempt  to  cross  to  the  rescue  of 
their  butchered  comrades ;  a  few  skirmishers  held  them  in 
check.  It  was  a  day  of  darkness  and  woe.  Distracted  women 
ran  about  the  streets.  Fathers  were  killed  with  infants 
in  their  arms.  Husbands  in  the  embrace  of  their  wives  were 
shot  down.  One  man,  shot  seven  times  and  not  yet  dead, 
raised  a  little  upon  one  elbow  and  begged  for  his  life  in  an 
13 


194  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

agony  so  -piteous  that  it  haunted  the  after  dreams  of  men ;  the 
eighth  shot  finished  him.  None  who  saw  that  dying  expression 
upon  his  face  ever  forgot  it.  Killing  ran  riot ;  the  torch  was 
applied  to  every  residence;  the  air  was  filled  with  cries  for 
mercy;  on  every  breeze  came  the  wailing  of  women  and  the 
screams  of  children.  Dead  men  lay  in  cellars,  upon  the  streets, 
in  parlors  where  costly  furniture  was ;  on  velvet  carpets ;  in 
hovels,  lowly  and  squalid;  by  fountains  where  azure  water 
played ;  in  hidden  places  everywhere.  The  sun  came  up  and 
flooded  all  the  sky  with  its  radiance,  and  yet  the  devil's  work 
was  not  done.  Still  the  smoke  ascended,  and  yet  could  be 
heard  the  shots,  the  crackling  of  blazing  rafters,  and  the  crash 
of  falling  walls. 

The  true  story  of  the  day's  terrible  work  will  never  be  told. 
Nobody  knows  it.  It  is  a  story  of  episodes,  tragic  but  isolated ; 
a  story  full  of  colossal  horrors  and  unexpected  deliverances. 
Sometimes  a  pleasant  word  saved  a  life,  at  other  times  a 
witticism  or  a  repartee.  The  heroic  devotion  of  the  women 
shone  out  amid  the  black  wreck  of  things — a  star.  Many  a 
husband  was  saved  by  his  wife ;  many  a  lover  by  his  sweetheart. 
Something  about  most  of  the  Guerrillas  was  human,  if  the  way 
to  reach  that  something  was  only  hit  upon.  The  girls  who  were 
the  prettiest  had  the  most  influence.  Attracted  by  the  boy- 
ishness of  his  face  and  a  look  in  his  blue  eyes  that  seemed  so 
innocent,  a  young  girl  came  to  Jesse  James  just  as  he  was  in 
the  act  of  shooting  a  soldier  in  uniform  who  had  been  smoked 
•out  of  a  cellar.  His  pistol  was  against  the  Federal's  head  when 
an  exceedingly  soft  and  penetrating  voice  called  out  to  him: 
4 'Don't  kill  him,  for  my  sake.  He  has  eight  children  who  have 
no  mother."  James  looked  and  saw  a  beautiful  girl,  probably 
just  turned  of  sixteen,  blushing  at  her  boldness  and  trembling 
before  him.  In  the  presence  of  so  much  grace  and  loveliness 
he  was  a  disarmed  man.  He  remembered  his  own  happy  youth, 
his  sister  not  older  than  the  girl  beside  him,  his  mother  who 
had  always  instilled  into  his  mind  lessons  of  mercy  and  charity, 
and  he  put  up  his  pistol  and  spoke  to  the  pleader:  "Take 
him,  he  is  yours.  I  would  not  harm  a  hair  in  his  head  for  the 
State  of  Kansas." 

In  the  northwestern  portion  of  the  town  there  was  a  boarding- 
house  occupied  by  four  young  married  couples.  The  men  of 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  195 

the  party  were  G.  W.  Baker,  J.  C.  Trask,  editor  of  the  State 
Journal,  S.  M.  Thorp,  State  Senator,  and  Dr.  Griswold.  Trask 
and  Griswold  were  killed  instantly.  Thorp  and  Baker  were 
wounded  badly,  but  lay  quiet  as  if  dead.  Another  squad  of 
Guerrillas  passed  along  in  a  short  time  and  stopped  to  examine 
the  bodies.  Finding  Thorp  and  Baker  still  alive,  they  shot 
them  again.  Thorp  died,  but  Baker  finally  recovered,  having 
been  shot  through  the  neck,  through  one  arm  and  through 
the  lungs. 

The  lady  who  in  the  morning  was  riding  out  so  early,  and 
who,  with  her  companion,  were  the  first  to  discover  the  move- 
ments of  the  Guerrillas,  was  a  Miss  Sallie  Young,  a  member  of 
the  family  of  Ex-Governor  WHson  Shannon.  Separated  from 
her  escort,  who  was  riding  the  best  he  could  to  save  his  life, 
Miss  Young  dashed  back  herself  to  Lawrence  to  give  the  alarm. 
Frank  James  politely  arrested  her  and  as  politely  required  her 
to  report  to  Quantrell.  During  all  the  long,  terrible  hours  of 
the  burning  and  killing,  this  heroic  girl — gallantly  treated  by  the 
worst  among  the  raiders,  and  exercising  over  them  a  mysterious 
influence— did  everything  possible  to  save  life  and  property. 
Personally  interceding  for  numbers  of  her  friends  and  acquain- 
tances— sometimes  with  smiles  and  sometimes  with  tears — she 
was  everywhere  amid  the  bullets  of  infuriated  men  and  the 
flames  of  consuming  buildings.  But  succeeding  to  the  fright 
of  the  pillage  there  came  a  frenzy,  and  this  veritable  angel  of 
mercy  was  arrested  by  her  own  people  as  a  Confederate  spy  and 
sent  to  Fort  Leavenworth  for  trial.  Innocent  of  course,  her 
good  deeds  had  only  caused  in  the  wild  ness  of  the  reaction  a 
suspicion  of  her  loyalty.  How  without  collusion  she  could  have 
influence  with  any  of  Quantrell's  men  was  a  problem  those  who 
had  suffered  most  and  were  the  most  bereft  did  not  attempt  to 
solve.  Youth,  beauty,  splendid  courage,  and  admirable  self- 
possession  could  soften  nothing  from  Missouri,  devils  that  they 
were,  and  butchers,  but  these  were  all  the  arts  she  had  and  they 
did  their  work. 

The  Mayor  of  the  city,  Collamore,  took  refuge  in  a  well  upon 
his  own  premises,  and  perished  there.  His  wife  had  seen  him 
enter,  and  close  to  it  and  about  it  all  the  terrible  forenoon  she 
prayed  and  hovered — afraid  to  call  out  to  her  husband  and 
afraid  to  go  away  from  the  vicinity.  At  last  the  Guerrillas 


196  NOTED  GUEBKILLAS,  OE 

were  gone,  and  she  rushed  wildly  to  the  well's  mouth  and  called 
aloud  for  her  husband.  No  answer.  Then  she  called  again 
with  a  voice  pitiful  in  its  agony  and  its  hopelessness.  No  answer, 
nor  would  there  ever  be  answer  more  this  side  the  river  that 
runs  beyond  the  valley  called  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death.  The  wretched  woman  cowered  down  in  her  desolate 
woe  and  prayed  for  some  one  to  help  her  husband.  There 
might  be  hope  yet ;  life  might  be  lingering  yet ;  silent,  perhaps 
he  did  not  know  that  the  danger  was  over  and  the  soldiers  gone. 
Melted  by  her  entreaties,  a  man  by  the  name  of  Lowe  descended 
into  the  fatal  well.  They  called  him  also,  but  he  did  not 
answer.  Instead  of  bringing  up  one  corpse  from  the  bottom, 
there  were  two. 

Judge  Carpenter  was  killed  in  the  yard  of  H.  S.  Clarke,  and 
Col.  Holt,  one  of  the  Confederate  officers  with  the  expedition, 
saved  Clarke.  Holt  saved  others  there  besides  Clarke.  He 
had  been  a  Union  man  doing  business  in  Vernon  county,  Mis- 
souri, as  a  merchant.  Jennison  raided  the  neighborhood  in 
which  he  lived,  plundered  him  of  his  goods,  burnt  his  property, 
insulted  his  family,  and  Holt  joined  the  Confederate  army.  S. 
A.  Riggs  was  saved  by  his  heroic  wife.  Peyton  Long,  one  of 
the  best  pistol  shots  in  the  command,  had  him  covered  with  a 
heavy  dragoon.  Mrs.  Riggs  seized  the  horse  of  the  Guerrilla 
by  the  bridle  and  caused  him,  a  high-spirited  animal,  to  rear  up 
suddenly.  A  woman  could  do  anything  with  Long,  and  he 
relented  when  Mrs.  Riggs  explained  why,  to  save  her  husband, 
she  had  caused  his  horse  to  disconcert  his  aim.  Cole  Younger 
saved  at  least  a  dozen  lives  this  day.  Indeed,  he  killed  none 
save  in  open  and  manly  battle.  At  one  house  he  captured  five 
citizens  over  whom  he  put  a  guard,  and  at  another  three  whom 
he  defended  and  protected.  The  notorious  General  James  H. 
Lane,  to  get  whom  Quantrell  would  gladly  have  left  and  sacri- 
ficed all  the  balance  of  the  victims,  made  his  escape  through  a 
corn-field,  hotly  pursued  but  too  splendidly  mounted  to  be 
captured.  Ex-Governor  Shannon  and  Judge  George  W.  Smith, 
were  absent  from  the  city;  their  houses  escaped  destruction. 
Some  were  saved  through  the  mysteries  of  the  Masonic  Order, 
notably  Gen.  C.  W.  Babcock. 

There  were  two  camps  in  Lawrence  at  the  time  of  the  attack, 
one — the  camp  of  the  negro  troops — being  located  at  the  s^outh- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         197 

ern  end  of  Massachusetts  street,  and  the  other  a  camp  of  white 
soldiers,  nearer  to  the  heart  of  the  city.  In  this  latter  camp 
were  twenty-one  infantry,  eighteen  of  whom  were  killed  in  the 
first  wild  charge,  and  three  escaped  by  running  and  hiding 
themselves.  All  belonged  to  the  city,  and  had  enlisted  from  its 
offices,  stores,  and  workshops.  They  were  without  arms  and 
fell  before  the  deadly  revolvers  as  unresisting  as  sheep.  The 
editor  of  the  Kansas  Tribune,  John  Speer,  lost  two  sons,  one 
shot  dead,  whose  body  was  found,  and  the  other  killed,  but 
whose  body  was  supposed  to  have  been  consumed  in  a  printing 
office,  together  with  the  body  of  a  young  apprentice  named 
Purington.  Mrs.  Bromley,  from  Wisconsin,  now  Mrs.  Will- 
iam Warner,  of  Kansas  City,  entertained  Bill  Anderson  and  did 
it  handsomely.  George  Todd,  Coleman  Younger,  Gregg, 
Blunt,  Jesse  and  Frank  James,  John  Coger,  and  George  Mad- 
dox,  took  dinner  with  William  L.  Bullene.  Quantrell's  head- 
quarters were  at  the  City  Hotel.  Gregg  saved  the  house  of 
Frederick  Reed  from  destruction,  and  in  saving  it  saved  Reed's 
life,  for  he  was  concealed  in  the  garret.  It  would  be  long  to  tell 
of  all  the  strange,  the  grotesque,  and  the  horrible  sights  that 
were  seen  that  day ;  all  the  puerile,  the  strong,  the  generous, 
the  heroic  deeds  that  were  done.  Quantrell  during  the  entire 
occupation  did  not  fire  his  pistol.  He  saw  everything,  directed 
everything,  was  the  one  iron  man,  watchful  and  vigilant  through 
everything;  but  he  did  not  kill.  He  saved  many.  He  had 
lived  once  in  Lawrence,  and  some  people  had  been  kind  to  him 
there.  These  he  spared,  for  whatever  else  was  said  of  Quan- 
trell, no  one  ever  said  truthfully  that  he  was  an  ingrate. 

Cole  Younger  had  dragged  from  his  hiding  place  in  a  closet  a 
very  large  man  who  had  the  asthma.  What  with  his  fright  and 
what  with  his  hurry,  the  poor  fellow  could  not  articulate. 
Younger's  pistol  was  against  his  heart  when  his  old  wife  cried 
out:  *'  For  God's  sake  do  not  shoot  him ;  he  hasn't  slept  in  a 
bed  for  nine  years  1"  This  appeal  and  the  asthma  together, 
made  Younger  roar  out:  "  I  never  intended  to  harm  a  hair  in 
his  head."  Jarre tte,  not  given  overmuch  to  tenderness  or  com- 
passion when  Kansas  men  were  to  be  killed,  yielded  sufficiently 
to  the  requirements  of  his  order  to  save  five  prisoners,  who  gave 
him  the  Masonic  sign  of  recognition,  and  James  Little  took  a 
wounded  man  away  from  a  Guerrilla,  who  was  proceeding  to 


198  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

dispatch  him,  because  the  wounded  man,  in  pleading  for  his- 
life,  had  the  accent  of  a  Southerner.  Blunt,  because  a  young 
girl  gave  him  a  cup  of  excellent  coffee,  saved  her  father,  and 
George  Shepherd  rescued  a  wounded  man  and  two  children 
from  a  burning  house  because  one  of  the  children  had  given  him 
a  rose. 

The  Eldridge  House  was  on  fire,  and  Todd  and  Jarrette, 
while  roaming  through  it  in  search  of  adventure,  came  upon 
a  door  that  was  locked.  Todd  knocked  and  cried  out  to  its 
occupants  that  the  building  was  in  flames ;  it  was  time  to  get 
away.  "Let  it  burn  and  bed — d,"  a  deep  voice  answered,  and 
then  the  tones  of  three  men  were  heard  in  conversation. 
Jarrette  threw  his  whole  weight  against  the  door,  bursting  it 
from  his  fastenings,  and  as  he  did  so  Todd  fired,  killing  one  of 
the  three  who  were  hiding  there,  Jarrette  another,  and  Todd 
the  third.  They  were  soldiers  who  had  escaped  from  the  morn- 
ing's massacre,  and  who  did  not  even  make  an  effort  to  defend 
themselves.  Bewildered  by  the  smoke  and  almost  suffocated, 
Todd  and  Jarrette  gained  the  open  air  with  difficulty.  Tom 
Maupin  and  Pat  O'Donnell,  operating  together  throughout  the 
day  as  two  savage  comrades  in  arms,  surrounded  a  house  in 
which  six  men  had  taken  refuge.  Maupin  dismounted,  entered 
the  house  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand  and  forced  out  its  occupants 
one  by  one.  As  each  one  stepped  beyond  the  door-sill 
O'Donnell  shot  him  dead ;  where  the  pile  lay  when  the  butchery 
was  done,  a  blanket  might  have  covered  them  all. 

Perhaps  the  number  killed  will  never  be  accurately  known. 
One  account  puts  it  at  one  hundred  and  forty-three,  one  at 
one  hundred  and  eighty-seven,  and  a  third  at  two  hundred  and 
sixteen.  It  is  probable  that  some  were  killed  and  burned  and 
never  found.  The  loss  of  property  was  estimated  at  the  enor- 
mous sum  of  $1,500,000,  the  total  aggregate  of  buildings  con- 
sumed footing  up  one  hundred  and  eighty-nine.  In  the  city 
proper  Quantrell  had  one  man  killed  and  two  wounded.  The 
man  who  lost  his  life  was  drunk  when  the  fight  began,  got 
drunker  as  it  continued,  and  finally  in  his  helplessness  gave  his 
life  away.  His  name  was  Larkin  Skaggs,  and  his  fighting  in 
Lawrence  was  the  first  he  had  ever  done  as  a  Guerrilla.  After 
being  shot  the  body  was  cast  in  the  flames  of  a  partially  con- 
sumed house  and  roasted  beyond  all  recognition.  Then  a  rope 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  199 

was  put  about  the  neck  of  the  corpse  and  some  negroes  dragged 
it  up  and  down  the  streets,  with  yells  of  infernal  exultation; 
afterwards  dry  wood  wag  piled  upon  it  until  it  was  entirely 
consumed. 

Fate  favored  Quantrell  from  the  time  he  left  Missouri  until 
he  returned  to  Missouri.  A  man  from  Johnson  county, 
Kansas,  started  by  an  Indian  trail  to  inform  the  people  of 
Lawrence  of  his  coming.  He  rode  too  carelessly ;  his  horse  fell 
and  so  injured  him  that  he  died.  A  full  company  of  soldiers 
were  stationed  at  Oxford,  but  they  seemed  more  anxious  to  keep 
out  of  harm's  way  than  to  protect  the  citizens.  Colonel  Plumb 
came  up  in  the  rear  and  did  not  force  the  fighting.  Lane  was 
afraid,  as  he  always  was,  and  Ewing  came  on  just  in  time  to  see 
the  rear  guard  of  the  Guerrillas  entering  Missouri  at  a  walk  and 
defiantly.  There  was  some  heavy  fighting,  however,  before  all 
was  over.  Lieut.  J.  L.  Bledsoe  was  shot  while  skirmishing  with 
the  Federals  across  the  river.  The  wound  was  the  wound  of  a 
minie  ball,  and  he  could  not  ride.  Hicks  and  Hi  George,  twa 
brothers  noted  for  supreme  daring,  came  to  his  assistance  when 
the  retreat  began  and  took  from  under  the  fire  of  the  enemy  a 
comfortable  carriage,  put  Bledsoe  into  it,  and  carried  him  out 
of  Lawrence.  These  two  Georges  had  never  been  known  to 
desert  a  friend  in  extremity  or  give  up  a  crippled  comrade,  no 
matter  what  the  danger  was  nor  how  imminent  it  pressed  upon 
them.  Their  father  had  been  murdered,  the  home  of  their 
mother  burned  three  times,  each  of  them  had  been  wounded, 
a  brother  had  been  killed,  and  they  lived  solely  to  fight  and  to 
have  revenge.  It  is  probable  that  they  will  never  give  in  detail 
the  story  of  each  life,  nor  tell  of  the  unmarked  graves  they 
know  of  between  the  Blue  and  the  Arkansas.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary now  that  they  should  ;  the  dead  past  has  buried  its  dead. 

Bledsoe 's  later  fate  had  over  it  the  sombre  light  of  some 
mediaeval  tragedy.  His  Lawrence  wound  healed  slowly.  Deep 
in  the  recesses  of  a  stretch  of  heavy  timber  in  Lafayette  county, 
his  comrades  placed  him  and  left  him.  At  intervals  a  physician 
stole  to  his  hiding-place  and  dressed  his  hurts.  Women  also 
found  him  out  and  fed  him.  He  was  convalescing  just  a  little 
when  a  Federal  cavalry  scout,  numbering  twenty-five,  came 
unawares  upon  the  maimed  Guerrilla  and  began  to  fire.  It  was 
a  combat  a  I'&utrance — one  against  twenty- five.  Bledsoe  had 


200  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

kept  with  him  to  the  end  his  three  dragoon  revolvers,  and  these 
he  laid  beside  him  when  he  first  heard  the  feet  of  the  approach- 
ing horses  crashing  through  the  underbrush.  He  spoke  not  a 
word  during  all  the  battle  ;  scarcely  able  to  lift  up  a  hand  before 
the  final  mercy  stroke,  he  did  not  ask  for  quarter  by  a  sign. 
Shot  in  the  right  shoulder,  he  fired  with  his  left  hand.  Shot  in 
the  left  arm,  he  reinforced  it  with  his  wounded  right  and  kept 
up  the  unequal  combat.  Two  of  the  enemy  were  killed,  and 
three  wounded.  Crippled  as  he  was,  and  weak  from  an  old 
hurt,  they  dared  not  grapple  with  him.  Dismounted  and  pro- 
tected by  trees,  they  took  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  shoot  him  to 
death.  At  last  a  bullet  found  his  brain,  and  he  fell  from  his 
knees  to  his  face,  dead.  But  two  chambers  remained  loaded  of 
his  three  revolvers ;  he  had  literally  fought  to  the  death. 

As  Quantrell  retreated  from  Lawrence  he  sent  upon  the  right 
hand  William  Gregg,  with  twenty  men,  and  upon  the  left 
Bill  Anderson  with  twenty  more.  Gregg  took  with  him  Jesse 
and  Frank  James,  Arch  Clements,  Little,  Morrow,  and  others 
of  the  most  desperate  of  the  command,  and  Anderson  took 
Henry  Hockensmith,  Long,  McGuire,  Farmer,  Hicks  and  Hi 
George,  Doc  Campbell,  and  others  equally  desperate.  Each 
was  ordered  to  burn  a  swathe  as  he  marched  back  parallel  with 
the  main  body,  and  to  kill  in  proportion  as  he  burnt.  Soon  on 
every  hand  columns  of  black  smoke  began  to  arise,  and  there 
was  heard  the  incessant  rattle  of  firearms  as  running  from  their 
consuming  houses  the  old  farmers  round  about  were  shot  down 
as  a  holiday  frolic.  This  unforgiving  farewell  lasted  for  twelve 
miles,  or  until  pressed  heavily  in  the  rear  Quantrell  was  forced 
to  recall  his  detachments  and  look  to  the  safety  of  the  aggre- 
gated column: 

Missouriward  from  Kansas  ten  miles  the  Guerrillas  halted  to 
rest  a  little  and  feed  a  little.  The  day's  savage  work  had  been 
exhausting  as  it  had  been  bloody.  Wrought  up  during  all  the 
forenoon  to  the  keenest  intensity,  the  relaxation  of  the  after- 
noon was  beginning  to  tell  upon  the  men.  Before  either  men 
or  horses  had  finished  eating,  the  picquets  were  driven  in  and 
the  rear  pressed  to  the  girth.  Todd  and  Jarrette  held  it  as  two 
lions  that  had  not  broken  their  fast.  Step  by  step,  and  fighting 
at  every  one,  they  kept  pursuit  at  arm's  length  for  ten  miles 
further.  The  Federals  would  not  charge.  Overwhelming  in 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  201 

numbers  and  capable  of  enveloping  at  any  moment  everything 
of  opposition,  they  contented  themselves  with  firing  at  long 
range  and  keeping  always  at  about  a  deadly  distance  from  the 
rear.  The  Guerrillas,  retying  principally  upon  dash  and  the  re- 
volver, felt  the  need  of  a  charge  to  get  rid  of  the  incessant  buzz- 
ing of  the  minie  balls  which  now  and  then  stung  them  grievously. 
Todd  spoke  to  Quantrell  of  the  annoyance  of  the  tireless, 
tenacious  pursuit,  and  Quantrell  halted  the  whole  column  for  a 
charge.  The  detachments  on  either  flank  had  sometime  since 
been  gathered  up,  and  the  men  brought  face  to  face  with  urgent 
need — turned  about  quick  and  dressed  up  in  line  handsomely. 
As  Todd  came  trotting  up  with  the  rear  guard,  he  fell  in  upon 
the  left  and  Quantrell  gave  the  word.  The  Federal  pursuit  had 
barely  time  to  fire  a  volley  before  it  was  rent  into  shreds  and 
scattered  upon  the  prairie.  The  unerring  revolver  at  short 
range  did  its  work  so  well  that  for  several  hours  thereafter  the 
pursuit  was  more  respectful  by  far  and  considerably  less  galling 
to  the  Guerrillas.  That  single  volley,  however — fired  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  gallop — wounded  Noah  Webster,  Geo.  Maddox, 
Gregg,  Peyton  Long,  Hi  George  and  Allen  Farmer,  and  killed 
the  horses  of  Todd,  Jarrette,  Jesse  James  and  Bill  Anderson. 
Jarrette  laid  hold  upon  a  mustang  pony  some  comrade  was 
leading  and  tried  to  saddle  it  for  twenty  minutes.  Serene 
under  the  fire  of  quite  a  regiment,  and  determined  to  succeed 
in  mastering  the  stubborn  animal  if  he  was  shot  for  it,  Jarrette 
lingered  and  lingered.  In  addition,  he  had  in  the  pockets  of 
his  McClellan  saddle  over  $8,000  in  greenbacks,  taken  from  a 
Lawrence  bank,  which  he  was  bringing  to  Missouri  for  distribu- 
tion among  the  widows  and  orphans  of  the  war.  Try  how  he 
would,  however,  the  mustang  was  more  than  a  match  for  the 
Guerrilla.  He  could  neither  bridle  him,  saddle  him,  nor  mount 
him  bareback.  The  Federals  were  within  pistol-shot  and  the 
bullets  were  everywhere.  Jarrette,  until  then  unconscious  of 
his  danger,  or  indifferent  to  it,  began  to  cast  his  eyes  about  him 
for  escape.  Across  the  prairie  to  Quantrell  it  was  at  least  a 
mile.  Arch  Clements  had  carried  Jesse  James  back,  Hicks 
George  had  done  the  same  for  Todd,  and  Frank  James  had 
taken  up  Anderson  behind  him.  Jarrette  would  not  abandon 
the  pony  for  anybody's  help,  and  there  he  was  alone  and  well 
nigh  succorless.  Aware  from  the  reports  of  those  who  had 


202  NOTED  GUERBILLAS,  03 

gone  forward  of  Jarrette's  desperate  extremity,  Cole  Younger, 
at  the  imminent  risk  of  his  own  life,  dashed  back  to  the  rescue, 
took  Jarrette  up  under  a  distressing  fire  and  regained  the 
column  with  him,  followed  by  two  hundred  well  mounted 
cavalry  to  within  pistol  range  of  the  rear  guard,  formed  to  give 
him  a  breathing  chance. 

From  behind  every  hill  top,  at  the  crossing  of  each  creek, 
from  the  midst  of  every  belt  of  timber,  Quantrell  fought  the 
/pursuit,  falling  back  in  splendid  order  and  forming  again  as  the 
country  favored,  without  haste  or  confusion.  At  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  Younger  and  Anderson  relieved  Todd  and 
Jarrette,  fighting  equally  as  well  and  holding  everything  in  the 
hands  of  stubbornness  and  defiance. 

Massing  northeast  of  Paola  and  halting  a  short  time  on.  Bull 
Creek  unmolested,  Quantrell  crossed  into  Missouri  near 
Aubrey,  and  pushed  on  at  a  great  pace  to  Grand  River,  in 
Cass  county.  The  morning  of  his  arrival  there  four  hundred 
Federals  were  in  his  front,  and  before  he  could  find  either  food 
or  shelter  he  had  to  fight  again.  Wolfish  somewhat  from  long 
fasting  and  marching,  the  Guerrillas  went  at  the  enemy  in  the 
old  fashion — charging  as  a  huge  stone  shot  from  a  catapult. 
They  drove  them,  eight  miles  furiously,  killing  twenty-eight  of 
those  who  were  poorly  mounted  and  clearing  out  the  country 
for  several  miles  round  about.  In  the  pursuit  a  gallant  Federal, 
pressed  to  a  stand  still  by  Jesse  James,  who  was  a  light  rider 
and  finely  mounted,  turned  at  bay  and  cried  out  to  the  young 
Guerrilla  to  fight  him  fair  and  give  him  a  chance  man  to  man. 
The  spirit  of  the  proposition  suited  James.  It  accorded  so- 
much  with  his  own  adventurous  nature,  and  agreed  so  thor- 
oughly with  what  he  would  himself  have  done  if  similarly 
situated,  that  he  asked  Fletch  Taylor,  close  by  his  side,  to  halt 
and  let  him  finish  alone  with  the  Jayhawker.  Taylor  halted 
and  James  dashed  at  the  Federal,  firing  as  he  rode.  The  third- 
shot  he  knocked  him  dead  from  the  saddle,  but  not  until  the 
undaunted  trooper  had  fired  at  him  four  times  deliberately  and 
missed  him  as  often.  Seeking  afterwards  something  that  would 
serve  to  identify  the  dead  man,  James  found  upon  his  person  a 
memorandum  book  containing  only  the  name  of  a  woman — 
Isabel  Sherman — and  a  lock  of  dark  brown  hair.  His  own 
name  was  not  in  the  book.  Among  entries  of  things  bought, 


GEO.  W.  MADDOX. 


DICK  MADDOX. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  203- 

money  received,  and  scenes  and  incidents  described,  there  was 
this  single  verse  of  Tennyson's  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
writen  in  a  hand- writing  different  from  the  balance  of  the 
writing  in  the  book : 

"  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head, 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Lawrence  dead. 
Oh!  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies; 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see." 

The  dead  man  was  scarcely  thirty.  His  features  were  refined, 
very  small,  and  showed  some  traces  of  suffering.  W  hat  his  life 
had  been,  or  what  his  sins  or  sorrows,  no  one  knew.  It  was 
impossible  even  to  learn  his  natqe.  The  Guerrillas  buried  him 
— the  first  time  and  probably  the  last  the  right  of  sepulchre  was 
ever  extended  to  a  foeman. 

Asked  afterward  to  name  those  who  fought  bravest  and  best 
on  the  retreat  from  Lawrence,  QuantrelPs  answer  was:  "They 
all  fought.  No  one  ever  had  men  to  exhibit  more  coolness  and 
daring."  When  pressed  further  to  single  out  a  few,  he  named 
Tuck  Hill,  Woot  Hill,  Will  Hulse,  James  Hinds,  Albert  Lee, 
Ben  Broomfield,  John  and  Tom  Maupin,  Allen  Farmer,  Cave 
Wyatt,  Arch  Clements,  Gregg,  Anderson,  Todd,  Jarrette,  Dick 
and  George  Maddox,  Dick  Yager,  Ike  and  Dick  Berry,  Payne 
Jones,  Andy  Blunt,  Peyton  Long,  Toler,  George  and  Frank 
Shepherd,  Dick  Kinney,  John  Jackson,  John  Hill,  Jesse  and 
Frank  James,  Oil  Johnson,  Cole  Younger,  William  and  Henry 
Nolan,  Tom  Hill,  Dick  Burnes,  Ben  Morrow,  John  Ross,  Har- 
rison Trow,  Col.  John  Holt,  James  Wilkinson,  Col.  Boaz  Roberts, 
Sid.  Creek,  William  and  Andy  McGuire,  H.  and  L.  Privin, 
Henry  Noland,  Richard  Hotie,  George  Webb,  Ab.  Haller,  Wade 
Morton,  William  Basham,  Dave  Hilton,  Andy  Walker,  William 
Woodward,  Mike  Parr,  William  Chiles,  Ike  Flannery,  Fletch 
Taylor,  James  Little,  John  Coger,  Sim  Whitsett,  Wm.  Green- 
wood, Pres  Webb,  Dan  Vaughn,  John  Poole,  and  a  score  of 
others  who  formed  what  might  be  called  the  Old  Guard.  James 
Hinds  was  but  a  boy  of  seventeen,  just  a  few  months  younger 
than  Jesse  James,  and  these  two  sought  out  as  if  in  boyish  wan- 
tonness the  hottest  and  most  dangerous  places  it  was  possible 


204  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

to  find,  laughing  always  and  always  where  the  killing  was. 
During  the  retreat  the  word  also  passed  from  file  to  file  that 
in  case  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  the  wounded  were  to  be 
killed  by  their  own  comrades.  As  long  as  there  was  a  hope  or 
a  chance  to  bring  them  out  safe  from  the  pursuit  the  detail, 
especially  charged  to  guard  them  and  help  them  forward,  was  to 
do  its  whole  duty.  If  neither  a  hope  nor  a  chance  remained  in 
the  end,  and  it  was  hard  riding  and  running  for  the  best  in  the 
band,  then  was  the  detail  to  surrender  to  the  pursuit  nothing 
that  was  left  alive.  It  was  horrible,  this  alternative,  but  it  was 
Guerrilla  war. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  COUNTER-BLOW. 

days  after  his  safe  arrival  in  Missouri  from  the  Law- 
-L  rence  Massacre,  Quantrell  disbanded  the  Guerrillas.  Fully 
six  thousand  Federals  were  on  his  track.  The  savageness  of 
the  blow  struck  there  had  appalled  and  infuriated  the  country. 
The  journalistic  pulses  of  the  North  rose  to  fever  heat  and  beat 
as  though  to  their  raging  fever  there  had  been  added  raving 
insanity.  In  the  delirium  of  the  governing  powers  impossible 
things  were  demanded.  Quantrell  was  to  be  hunted  to  the 
death ;  he  was  to  be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered ;  his  band 
was  to  be  annihilated;  he  was  to  be  fought  with  fire,  proscrip- 
tion, depopulation,  and  wholesale  destruction.  At  the  height 
of  the  very  worst  of  these  terrible  paroxysms,  Ewing's  famous 
General  Order  No.  11  was  issued.  It  required  every  citizen  of 
Jackson,  Cass,  Bates,  and  a  portion  of  Vernon  counties  to  abandon 
their  houses  and  come  either  into  the  lines  of  designated  places 
that  were  fortified,  or  within  the  jurisdiction  of  said  lines.  If 
neither  was  done,  and  said  citizens  remained  outside  beyond  the 
time  specified  for  such  removal,  they  were  to  be  regarded  aa 
outlaws  and  punished  accordingly.  Innocent  and  guilty  alike 
felt  the  rigors  of  this  unprecedented  proscription.  For  the 
Union  man  there  was  the  same  line  of  demarkation  that  was 
drawn  for  the  secessionist.  Age  had  no  immunity ;  sex  was  not 
regarded.  The  rights  of  property  vanished;  predatory  bands 
preyed  at  will ;  nothing  could  be  sold ;  everything  had  to  be 
abandoned ;  it  was  the  obliteration  of  prosperity  by  counties  j 
it  was  the  depopulation  of  miles  upon  miles  of  fertile  territory 
in  a  night. 

General  Ewing  has  been  unjustly  censured  for  the  promulga- 
tion of  such  an  order,  and  held  responsible  in  many  ways  for 
its  execution.  The  genius  of  a  celebrated  painter,  Capt.  George 


206  NOTED  GUEEEILLASy  OE 

C.  Bingham,  of  Missouri,  has  been  evoked  to  give  infamy  to  the 
vandalism  of  the  deed  and  voice  to  the  indignation  of  history 
over  its  consummation.  Bingham' s  picture  of  burning  and 
plundered  houses,  of  a  sky  made  awful  with  mingled  flame  and 
smoke,  of  a  long  train  of  helpless  fugitives  going  away  they 
knew  not  whither,  of  appealing  women  and  gray- haired  non- 
combatants,  of  skeleton  chimneys  rising  like  wrathful  and 
accusing  things  from  the  wreck  of  pillaged  homesteads,  of  uni- 
formed things  called  officers  rummaging  in  trunks  and  drawers, 
of  colonels  loaded  with  plunder,  and  captains  gaudy  with  stolen 
jewelry,  will  live  longer  than  the  memories  of  the  strife,  and 
keep  alive  after  Guerrilla  and  Jayhawker  are  well  forgotten 
manhood's  stubborn  hatred  of  the  thief  and  the  honest  soldier's 
righteous  horror  over  battle  flags  borne  aloft  to  petty  larceny  or 
pitiful  picking  and  stealing. 

Ewing,  however,  was  a  soldier.  General  Order  No.  11  came 
from  district  headquarters  at  St.  Louis  where  Schofield  com- 
manded, and  through  Schofield  from  Washington  City  direct. 
Ewing  had  neither  choice  nor  discretion  in  the  matter.  He  was 
a  brave,  conscientious,  hard-fighting  officer  who  did  his  duty  as  it 
came  to  his  hands  to  do.  He  could  not  have  made,  if  he  had 
tried,  one  hair  of  the  head  of  the  infamous  Order  white  or  black. 
It  was  a  portion  of  the  inexorable  order  of  things,  and  Ewing 
occupied  towards  it  scarcely  the  attitude  of  an  instrument.  He 
promulgated  it  but  he  did  not  originate  it ;  he  gave  it  voice  but 
he  did  not  give  it  form  and  substance  ;  his  name  has  been  linked 
to  it  as  to  something  that  should  justly  cause  shame  and  re- 
proach, but  history  in  the  end  will  separate  the  soldier  from  the 
man  and  render  unto  the  garb  of  the  civilian  what  it  has  failed  to 
concede  to  the  uniform  of  the  commander.  As  a  citizen  of  the 
republic  he  deplored  the  cruelty  of  an  enactment  which  he  knew 
to  be  monstrous ;  but  as  a  soldier  in  the  line  of  his  duty  the 
necessities  of  the  situation  could  not  justify  a  moment's  argu- 
ment. He  had  but  to  obey  and  to  execute,  and  he  did  both 
and  mercifully. 

For  nearly  three  weeks,  Jackson  county  was  a  Pandemonium, 
together  with  the  counties  of  Cass,  Bates,  Vernon,  Clay,  and 
Lafayette.  Six  thousand  Federals  were  in  the  saddle,  but 
Quantrell  held  his  grip  upon  these  counties  in  despite  of  every- 
thing. Depopulation  was  going  on  in  a  two-fold  sense — once  by 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  207 

-emigration  or  exodus,  and  once  by  the  killing  of  perpetual  am- 
bushments  and  lyings-in-wait.  In  detachments  of  ten,  the  Guer- 
rillas divided  up  and  f  jught  everywhere.  Scattered,  they  came 
together  as  if  by  instinct.  Driven  away  from  the  flank  of  one 
column,  they  appeared  in  the  rear  of  another.  They  had  voices 
that  were  as  the  voices  of  night  birds.  Mysterious  horsemen 
appeared  upon  all  the  roads.  Not  a  single  Federal  scouting  or 
exploring  party  escaped  paying  toll.  Sometimes  the  aggregate 
of  the  day's  dead  was  simply  enormous.  Frequently  the 
assailants  were  never  seen.  Of  a  sudden,  and  rising,  as  it  were, 
out  of  the  ground,  thoy  delivered  a  deadly  volley  and  rode 
away  into  the  darkness — invisible.  All  nature  was  in  league 
with  them.  The  trees  sheltered  them,  the  leaves  hid  them,  the 
blind  paths  conducted  them  from  danger,  the  fords  over  streams 
enabled  them  to  check  pursuit,  the  night  enveloped  them,  the 
ravines  were  forts,  the  country  furnished  them  guides,  the 
broken  ways  were  watched,  they  killed  always  and  they  kept 
at  work. 

Up  to  the  Lawrence  Massacre  there  had  been  no  scalping 
done;  after  it  a  good  deal.  Ab.  Haller,  brother  of  Lieutenant 
William  Haller,  and  a  Guerrilla  of  great  courage  and  prowess, 
was  hiding  wounded  in  some  timber  near  Texas  Prairie,  at  the 
extreme  eastern  edge  of  Ja'ckson  county.  As  did  "Bledsoe,  so 
did  he,  selling  his  life  as  dearly  as  he  could.  Alone,  he  faced 
seventy-two,  killing  and  wounding  five  of  the  attacking  party. 
When  he  fell  he  had  been  struck  eleven  times,  but  he  did  not 
suffer.  The  last  bullet  hit  him  fair  in  the  left  breast  and  pene- 
trated the  heart;  when  they  rushed  in  upon  him  not  a  single 
load  remained  in  either  of  his  revolvers.  Infuriated  at  a  resist- 
ance as  deadly  as  it  was  unexpected,  his  slayers  scalped  him 
and  cut  off  his  ears.  In  an  hour  afterwards,  probably,  Andy 
Blunt  came  upon  the  body,  multilated  as  it  was,  and  pointed 
out  the  marks  of  the  knife  to  his  companions.  "We  had  some- 
thing to  learn  yet,  boys,"  he  said,  "and  we  have  learned  it. 
Scalp  for  scalp  hereafter!" 

The  next  day  Blunt,  Peyton  Long,  Arch  Clements,  Bill  Ander- 
son and  William  McGuire  captured  four  militia  from  a  regiment 
belonging  to  North  Missouri  and  shot  them  after  they  surren- 
dered. Blunt  scalped  each  of  the  four,  leaving,  however,  the 
ears  intact,  because,  he  said,  he  had  no  use  for  the  ears. 


208  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

The  killing  went  on.  William  Gregg,  Fletcher  Taylor,  James 
Noland,  James  Little  and  Frank  James  captured  between  Fire 
Prairie  and  Napoleon,  six  of  Penick's  militia,  and  held  over 
them  a  kind  of  grotesque  court  martial.  It  was  on  a  lazy, 
lingering  summer  afternoon  that  James,  as  the  judge  advocate, 
opened  the  case  for  the  prosecution,  and  Gregg,  as  counsel  for 
the  accused,  replied  to  him.  Taylor  was  the  president  of  the 
court,  and  when  the  vote  was  taken  upon  the  question  of  life 
or  death,  all  of  the  five  had  voted  death.  These  were  not 
scalped. 

The  next  day  Richard  Kinney,  John  Jarrette,  Jesse  James 
nnd  Sim  Whitsett  attacked  a  picquet  post  of  eight  men  a  mile 
from  Wellington  and  annihilated  it.  Cutting  them  off  from  the 
town  and  running  them  in  a  contrary  direction,  not  a  man 
escaped.  The  last  one  to  be  overtaken  was  an  old  soldier  from 
Iowa,  probably  sixty  years  of  age.  Jesse  James  reached  him 
first  as  he  ran  and  shot  him  to  the  left  of  the  spine  and  high  up 
in  the  shoulder.  He  abandoned  his  horse  and  took  position 
behind  a  large  tree  on  the  roadside,  keeping  hold  upon  his  gun 
and  waiting  to  use  it  accurately.  James  dashed  up  to  the  tree, 
pointed  his  pistol  round  it  and  fired  down  in  the  top  of  the  old 
man's  head.  He  sank  down  all  of  a  heap  and  murmured  once 
or  twice' audibly :  "My  time  had  cbme!  my  time  had  come!" 

Two  days  afterwards  Ben  Morrow,  Pat  O'Donnell  and  Frank 
James  ambushed  an  entire  Federal  company  between  Salem 
Church,  on  the  Lexington  road,  and  the  Widow  Chiles'.  These 
three  men,  hidden  in  some  dense  undergrowth  where  there  were 
numerous  large  trees,  fought  eighty  men  for  nearly  an  hour,  kill- 
ing seven  and  wounding  thirteen.  O'Donnell  was  wounded  three 
times,  and  James  and  Morrow  once  each  and  slightly.  Todd, 
gathering  together  thirty  of  his  old  men,  and  getting  a  volunteer 
guide  who  knew  every  hog  path  in  the  country  round  about, 
rode  past  Kansas  City  boldly  and  took  position  at  dusk  on  the 
Shawneetown  road,  looking  for  a  train  of  wagons  bringing 
infantry  into  Kansas  City.  It  was  midnight  before  the  small 
cavalry  advance  in  front  of  the  train  gave  token  of  its  near 
approach,  although  the  Guerrillas  had  been  waiting  for  it  for 
several  hours.  There  were  twenty  wagons  with  twenty  soldiers 
to  the  wagon,  besides  the  driver.  No  order  had  been  preserved 
in  the  line  of  march.  Save  the  cavalry  in  front,  nothing  else 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         275 

the  enemy's  one  hundred  and  eighty  killed  and   two  hundred 
wounded. 

Captain  Lea  had  already  established  his  base  of  operations  at 
Floyd,  Carroll  parish,  Louisiana,  and  thither  he  hurried  from 
Wilson's  Point  burdened  with  one  hundred  wagons,  five  hundred 
head  of  horses  and  mules,  one  piece  of  artillery,  many  small 
arms,  much  ammunition,  and  over  one  hundred  wounded  pris- 
oners. Reinforced  by  half  a  regiment  of  negro  cavalry,  the 
marines  landed  a  second  time  and  followed  Lea  to  Bayou 
Macon,  where  he  turned  about  suddenly  and  drove  back  the 
pursuing  cavalry  with  heavy  loss  to  the  river.  The  blow  struck 
had  been  a  resounding  one.  As  the  swoop  of  a  huge  hawk  into 
a  barnyard  well  filled  with  chickens,  so  had  been  the  desperate 
rush  of  this  intrepid  soldier  who  loved  his  country  and  who 
sought  only  how  he  best  might  serve  her.  Wagons,  half  loaded 
with  contraband  cotton,  were  abandoned  by  their  guards.  The 
worst  among  the  cattle  thieves  took  to  the  swamps.  The  desert- 
ers fled  the  country  or  joined  the  most  convenient  military  organ- 
nization.  Between  the  fleet  and  the  shore  the  smugglings  and 
the  traffic-kings  were  few  and  far  between.  A  superhuman 
blade  had  leaped  as  it  were  from -its  scabbard  and  could  be 
heard  hewing  away  among  the  bayous  and  the  plantations. 

Lea,  equally  with  Van  Tromp,  might  have  carried  a  broom  at 
the  head  of  his  column  as  Van  Tromp  carried  a  broom  at  his 
foremast.  He  would  sweep  away  abuses,  outrages,  wrongs,  the 
tyranny  of  scoundrels  banded  together,  and  the  government  of 
thieves  in  league  with  authority. 

Fighting  much  during  the  winter  of  1863,  and  recruiting, 
drilling,  and  providing  thoroughly  for  his  men,  Lea  com- 
menced active  operations  on  the  21st  of  March,  1864, 
and  moved  into  Tensas  parish,  on  the  Mississippi  river.  Capt. 
Stevenson,  an  accomplished  young  officer  of  great  bravery  and 
intelligence,  led  the  advance  and  came  upon  the  outposts  of  the 
enemy  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Lea  had  two  hundred 
men  and  the  Federals  four  hundred.  The  fight  lasted  two 
hours.  Having  the  advantage  of  position,  of  numbers,  and  of 
long  range  guns,  it  was  only  after  some  stubborn  fighting  that 
he  drove  the  enemy  from  their  first  obstructions  and  finally  from 
their  second,  which  were  composed  of  many  negro  cabins  par- 
tially dismantled  and  great  piles  of  logs  thrown  promiscuously 
18 


274  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

together.  Here  they  held  on  tenaciously.  Stevenson  was  sent 
to  the  left,  Capt.  Middleton  to  the  right,  while  Lea  and  Captain 
Lusk  charged  with  the  center.  Stevenson  broke  through  on 
the  left  desperately,  swept  on  into  the  rear  and  began  to  enfilade 
the  sharpshooters  holding  the  log  heaps  and  the  abandoned 
cabins.  As  they  turned  to  crush  him  with  their  whole  force, 
Lea,  Lusk  and  Middleton  came  on  at  a  run  and  finished  the 
encounter.  One  hundred  and  ten  dead  Federals  were  left  upon 
the  field,  and  as  many  as  one  hundred  wounded  were  given  up 
to  the  marines  under  a  flag  of  truce.  Sixty  prisoners  remained 
in  the  hands  of  the  Confederates,  the  balance  of  the  command 
saving  themselves  by  a  helter  skelter  flight  to  the  river  where 
the  gunboats  received  them  and  saved  them  from  destruction. 

Close  to  the  scene  of  this  second  battle,  and  within  canister 
range  of  the  guns  of  the  fleet,  there  had  been  erected  a  large 
building  filled  from  basement  to  garret  with  everything  fit  to  sell 
to  a  needy  people  or  trade  for  a  pound  of  cotton.  Everything 
contraband  was  in  this  store — powder,  lead,  percussion  caps, 
new  revolvers,  whisky,  medicines,  surgical  instruments,  cloth- 
ing, groceries  of  all  kinds,  and  dress  goods  of  the  latest  styles 
and  patterns.  Lea  held  on  to  this  house  until  every  valuable 
thing  in  it  was  carried  to  a  place  of  safety  and  delivered  into 
the  hands  of  a  responsible  agent  of  the  Confederate  govern- 
ment. For  three  days  and  nights  he  fought  a  grim,  dogged, 
desperate  fight  over  this  building  and  these  goods.  Five  times 
shells  from  the  gunboats  fired  it,  and  five  times  he  extin- 
guished the  flames.  Twice  large  bodies  of  marines  landed  from 
the  fleet  and  sought  to  retake  it  by  assault,  and  twice  he  drove 
them  back  with  ruinous  loss.  The  bombardment  went  on  and 
so  did  the  removal  of  the  stores.  In  the  fight  seventy-five  huge 
army  wagons  had  been  captured  with  mules  and  running  gear 
intact,  and  these  were  first  loaded  with  supplies  and  medicines. 
Then  every  wagon  in  the  country  round  about  was  made  to  be 
available.  What  ordinarily  might  have  been  considered  freight 
trains  were  now  come  to  be  called  caravansaries.  The  road  to 
the  rear  was  filled  with  every  sort  and  kind  of  vehicle — government 
wagon,  log  sled,  cotton  cart,  ox  team,  and  family  carriage — Lea 
held  on  like  a  bulldog  and  fought  every  hour  until  with  the 
building  torn  and  battered  about  him,  with  ten  of  his  dead 
unburied  who  had  fought  to  save  the  stores,  and  thirty  of  his 


THE  'W&RFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  275 

wounded  needing  care  and  succor,  he  surrendered  the  shell  of  a 
house — wrecked  and  gutted — to  whoever  cared  to  patch  it  up  or 
inhabit  it,  and  fell  back  with  his  immense  booty  unmolested. 
Estimated  to  be  worth  to  the  Confederacy  $600,000,  from  all 
this  heap  of  spoils  Captain  Lea  would  not  permit  to  his  men  the 
appropriation  of  a  single  pound  of  tobacco  or  a  single  bottle  of 
brand}7.  "If  what  we  have  taken,"  he  said  in  justification,  and 
when  remonstrated  with  for  his  firmness  by  some  of  his  officers, 
"if  what  we  have  taken  belongs  to  us  we  are  robbers ;  if  it 
belongs  to  the  Confederate  government  and  we  take  so  much  as 
the  worth  of  a  sixpence  we  are  thieves.  Let  us  by  our  example 
deserve  the  name  of  neither." 

If  the  first  blow  struck  by  this  intrepid  and  indefatigable 
man  had  produced  consternation,  the  second  was  succeeded  by 
rage,  mortification,  and  despair.  Unless  he  was  speedily  got 
out  of  the  country,  the  end  of  the  cotton  trade  was  the  one 
sure  thing,  however  uncertain  the  balance.  Rumors  first  went 
to  Smith,  and  then  runners,  and  then  protests,  misrepresenta- 
tions, and  appeals.  It  is  difficult  to  understand  what  charges 
were  brought  against  Lea,  or  how  any  respectable  officer  found 
sufficient  audacity  to  honestly  ask  for  his  removal ;  but  about 
the  first  of  June,  1864,  Gen.  Smith  began  to  manifest  signs  of 
displeasure  at  his  subordinate's  enterprisinig  boldness,  and  on 
the  twenty-fifth  he  recalled  him  to  Shreveport.  Lea  reported 
instantly  and  with  all  of  his  men.  Shelby  was  there,  to  stand 
by  his  brilliant  captain,  and  Crisp  was  there  to  second  Shelby. 
Governor  Henry  W.  Allen,  of  Louisiana,  himself  a  disabled 
soldier  of  conspicuous  valor  and  spotless  patriotism,  allied  with 
Shelby,  Lea  and  Crisp  in  every  effort  made  to  checkmate  the 
enemies  of  good  administration  and  military  supremacy.  In 
the  end  the  right  triumphed.  After  a  thorough  examination  of 
the  whole  situation  Gen.  Smith  became  satisfied  that  Lea  was 
the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  and  ordered  him  to  return  at 
once  and  assume  command  of  all  the  country  east  of  the 
Ouachita  river.  Thereafter  the  sky  began  to  brighten  from 
zenith  to  horizon. 

Several  swift,  hot  skirmishes  succeeded  to  Lea's  arrival  at 
Floyd,  where — busy  with  the  complicated  affairs  of  a  necessary 
civil  and  internal  administration — he  spent  several  important 
weeks  in  giving  protection  to  the  planter  and  peace  to  the  people 


276  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

generally.  Banditti  no  longer  lurked  in  the  swamps.  Bands 
of  predatory  soldiers  were  broken  up.  Cotton  buyers  no  longer 
abounded.  Many  traps  baited  for  bad  men  caught  spies. 
Industry  revived ;  women  were  safe  from  assault ;  the  roads 
were  no  longer  dangerous  for  travelers ;  the  marines  lost  their 
amphibious  habits;  moneyed  men  with  permits  found  their  occu- 
pation gone;  demoralized  Confederates  returned  to  then- 
duty  ;  recruits  flocked  to  the  standard  of  the  Missourian,  and 
on  every  hand  and  upon  every  plantation  there  were  signs  of 
abundant  thrift  and  many  future  possibilities. 

On  the  tenth  of  September,  Capt.  Lea  took  the  field  again. 
By  the  fifteenth  he  was  in  front  of  a  Federal  force  stationed  at 
a  point  on  the  Mississippi  river  known  as  the  Horse  Shoe.  At 
the  toe  of  this  shoe,  which  rested  upon  the  river,  there  was  a 
fortification.  Above  and  below  it  gunboats  kept  watch  and 
ward.  Lea — with  Stevenson  leading  the  advance — struck  the 
left  or  upper  heel  of  this  horseshoe  and  charged  the  covering 
ditches  savagely.  He  was  repulsed  with  loss.  He  charged 
again  and  was  again  repulsed.  Infuriated,  he  charged  for  the 
third  time,  and  for  the  third  time  he  was  driven  back.  Two 
gunboats  stood  on  either  flank  of  the  fortification  and  added 
their  deep  roar  to  the  sharper  and  clearer  rattle  of  the  musketry. 
If  it  was  impossible  to  get  the  enemy  out  by  a  charge,  then  it 
was  impossible  to  get  him  out  at  all.  No  other  way  existed. 
Lea  charged  a  fourth  time  and  gained  a  ditch.  This  he  held 
desperately,  despite  the  fury  with  which  he  was  counter-charged 
and  the  storm  of  shells  bursting  upon  him  from  the  fleet.  A 
second  ditch  was  next  gained,  and  then  a  third,  until  broken 
and  driven  away  from  their  last  resource,  the  routed  enemy  fled 
to  the  fleet  for  immediate  shelter.  In  the  last  savage  combat 
Stevenson  fell  at  the  head  of  his  men,  conspicuous  for  his 
splendid  bearing,  as  did  Rankin  Chandler,  another  young  officer 
of  great  worth  and  heroism.  Both  were  buried  in  the  same 
grave  on  a  bank  of  the  Tensas  river.  John  Barker,  an  old 
Quantrell  Guerrilla,  especially  distinguished  himself  in  this 
fight,  as  did  James  Tucker,  another  Missouri  Guerrilla,  S.  A. 
Lusk  of  Louisiana,  Charles  Moore  of  New  Orleans,  and  the  two 
Truselow  brothers,  Pet  and  Douglass,  A.  G.  Belding,  William 
Dickinson,  and  Henry  Senter.  Lusk  and  Dickinson  were 
especially  noted  as  scouts  and  guides.  If  Lusk  knew  one  road 


THE  WAP, FAME  OF  THE  BORDER  277 

across  a  swamp  as  he  knew  his  alphabet,  Dickinson  knew 
another.  The  bayous  were  as  books  to  them  for  the  reading. 
As  they  piloted  Younger,  Jarrette  and  Poole,  so  they  piloted  Lea 
always  to  victory.  Each  had  a  company  which,  when  the 
scouting  was  done,  was  led  always  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight. 
The  country  they  sought  so  diligently  to  free  from  banditti  and 
birds  of  prey  was  a  country  fair  to  look  upon  and  fertile  as  an 
island  in  the  sea.  They  loved  it  with  a  love  that  was  also  a 
religion.  Their  patriotism  was  a  holy  thing,  and  their  warfare 
to  exemplify  and  to  illustrate  it  the  warfare  of  Christian  men 
joined  to  the  antique. 

In  the  fight  at  the  Horse  Shoe  the  Federal  loss  was  one  hun- 
dred and  ninety-five  killed,  seventy-two  wounded,  and  sixty- 
three  captured.  Lea  lost  eighty  killed  and  wounded,  and 
returned  across  Bayou  Mason  on  the  sixteenth  of  September, 
with  his  prisoners  and  two  hundred  stands  of  valuable  arms. 
On  the  eighteenth  he  was  at  the  Lum  place,  situated  upon  Will 
Ba}^ou,  in  Madison  Parish.  About  the  Lum  place  swamps 
abounded.  The  road  that  ran  by  it  ran  also  through  several 
almost  impenetrable  stretches  of  cane  and  cypress,  miry  bot- 
toms and  extended  surfaces  of  shallow  water.  At  least  one 
hundred  and  fifty  bad  whites,  skulking  deserters,  and  semi-bar- 
baric negroes  infested  these  swamps,  hid  themselves  in  these 
jungles,  splashed  about,  depraved  and  half  naked  among  these 
lagoons,  and  came  often  and  often  to  the  road  on  the  higher  and 
dryer  land  at  the  Lum  place  and  preyed  savagely  upon  the 
passers  by.  Many  of  these  had  been  killed,  many  robbed,  some 
wounded  and  left  for  dead,  and  not  a  few  fcaken  into  the  fast- 
nesses and  held  for  ransom  under  terrible  threats  of  mutilation 
or  torture.  It  was  difficult  to  get  at  these  outlaws  guarded  by 
brake  and  bramble,  morass  and  stagnant  water.  Horses  could 
not  penetrate  to  the  hiding-places.  Footmen  could  not  find 
them  in  a  two  days'  tramp.  Hounds  could  not  trail  them  a  fur- 
long from  the  shore.  Lea,  through  a  stratagem,  surprised  and 
obliterated  the  band.  Dressing  Lusk  and  Dickinson  in  Federal 
clothing,  and  sending  them  forward  with  sixty  picked  men,  simi- 
larly habilitated,  he  followed  hard  upon  their  rear,  not  close,  it  is 
true,  but  close  enough  for  succoring  distance.  The  day  of  the 
fight  saw  at  the  Lum  place  th^  most  of  the  banditti.  Dickinson 
and  Lusk  rode  boldly  up  and  asked  the  leader  for  news  of  Con- 


278  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

federate  cavalry.  This  leader  was  a  colossal  black,  with  ebony 
skin,  ivory  teeth,  a  skull  like  a  bird,  a  fist  like  a  trip  hammer,  a 
liver  like  a  hog,  the  form  of  Goliah  of  Gath,  the  strength  of  a 
buffalo,  and  the  endurance  of  an  alligator.  He  was  especially 
delighted  to  see  so  many  Federals,  he  said,  for  since  that  devil 
of  a  Lea  had  been  operating  in  the  country  their  visits  inland 
had  been  few  and  far  between.  Would  they  stay  long?  Rebels 
were  here,  there,  and  everywhere ;  but  just  at  this  time  he  knew 
of  no  particular  force  in  any  particular  place.  The  example  set 
by  the  leader  was  soon  followed  by  the  men,  and  in  a  moment 
or  two  friends  and  foes  were  communicative  alike  and  equally 
voluble.  Presently  Lea  with  the  main  body  was  seen  approach- 
ing. "Who  comes  there?"  the  negro  leader  asked  of  Lusk, 
his  great  white  eyes  a  shining.  "More  Federals,"  the  Confed- 
erate coolly  answered  him.  "More  devils!"  he  yelled,  snatch- 
ing a  double-barrelled  shot-gun  from  the  hand  of  a  white  outlaw 
and  leaping  away  from  the  road  towards  the  nearest  swamp. 
"  We  are  betrayed !  We  are  betrayed!  Follow  me,  men,  and 
fight  hard  and  fast  as  you  follow."  No  braver  animal  ever  got 
from  God  a  voice  that  filled  all  the  air  for  a  mile.  It  was  heard 
loud  and  clear  and  high  above  cries  and  shots,  and  furious 
yells,  and  the  thunder  of  flying  feet.  The  melee  was  a  savage 
tearing  to  pieces.  Lea  reached  the  combat  in  time  to  make  the 
bloody  work  thorough  and  instantaneous.  From  the  high  land 
about  the  Lum  place  to  the  nearest  swamp  it  was  scarcely  a 
mile,  but  by  the  time  a  dozen  fugitives  had  reached  it,  the  bal- 
ance of  the  band  had  been  destroj'ed.  Turned  fairly  and  hero- 
ically to  bay,  James  Tucker  closed  in  upon  the  negro  leader  and 
shot  him  six  times  without  knocking  him  from  his  feet.  He 
fired  at  Tucker  three  times  and  hit  him  once.  Another  soldier, 
Carroll,  shot  him  four  times,  when  he  ran  a  dozen  yards,  fell, 
struggled  to  his  feet,  ran  fifty  or  sixty  yards  further  and  fell 
again.  This  time  he  did  not  get  up.  The  ten  pistol  balls  in  his 
body  would  have  killed  an  elephant.  Of  the  original  organiza- 
tion of  one  hundred  and  fifty  men,  probably  not  more  than 
twenty  survived  the  reckoning,  and  these  were  never  heard  of 
again  in  the  country.  The  roads  infested  by  these  desperate 
marauders  became  safe  again,  and  the  plantations  contiguous  to- 
their  hiding-places  as  free  from  imposition  as  a  great  fear  could 
make  them. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  279 

« 
Capt.  Lea,  indeed,  had  but  little  more  to  do  in  this  portion 

of  the  State.  He  had  broken  up  the  contraband  cotton  trade, 
driven  away  deserters,  made  it  unprofitable  for  speculators  to 
go  further  inland  than  a  gunboat  could  throw  a  canister-shot, 
caused  the  cottonwood  trees  to  bear  spies,  given  peace  to 
neighborhoods  terrorized  over  by  bad  men,  protected  industry, 
destroyed  a  dozen  robber  bands,  fought  and  worsted  several 
Federal  detachments  sent  to  crush  him,  organized  the  citizens 
into  home  guard  companies,  armed  them  with  excellent  guns 
taken  from  the  enemy,  won  the  respect-  of  the  planters,  the 
adoration  of  his  soldiers,  the  thanks  of  the  commander-in-chief, 
and  if  he  would  still  find  employment  for  his  restless  energy 
and  his  indomitable  courage  he  would  have  to  seek  it  in 
Southern  Louisiana. 

The  Achafalaya  country  had  of  late  been  much  infested  with 
light  armed  mosquito  boats  penetrating  the  bayous  and  water 
courses  and  trafficking  for  cotton  in  every  direction.  The  same 
demoralization  and  desertion  which  attended  this  traffic  on  the 
Mississippi  river,  in  no  manner  abandoned  it  when  it  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  great  lakes  and  navigable  bayous  of  the  South. 
Lea  was  ordered  there  to  operate  as  he  had  been  operating  for 
the  past  six  months,  and  began  the  march  for  his  new  depart- 
ment on  November  28th,  1864.  At  Black  river  an  immense 
herd  of  cattle  from  Texas  was  encountered  en  route  to  the  Con- 
federate armies  of  the  East.  Here  for  two  weeks  he  rendered 
immense  and  valuable  services.  Especially  charged  to  keep 
every  hostile  thing  away  from  the  herd,  he  fought  fourteen  fights 
in  fourteen  days,  holding  his  ground  to  the  last,  though  always 
outnumbered  and  constantly  overmatched. 

The  Achafalaya  county,  however,  was  not  reached.  Informa- 
tion received  at  the  Shreveport  headquarters  between  the  time 
Lea  was  ordered  to  occupy  it  and  return  from  it  —  made  it 
necessary  for  Gen.  Smith  to  send  Gen.  Buckner  into  the  ter- 
ritory in  question  with  a  heavy  force  of  both  -infantry  and 
cavalry.  Lea's  orders  of  recall  overtook  him  a  three  days* 
march  from  his  destination,  and  he  turned  short  about  for  the 
mouth  of  Red  river,  crossed  that  stream,  halted  a  day  or  two 
there,  and  then  hurried  on  to  the  Mississippi  river,  and  struck 
it  at  a  point  opposite  Natchez.  Camped  on  Tensas  Lake  was  a 
regiment  of  Wisconsin  cavalry,  veterans  all  and  seasoned  to 


280  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,   OB 

battle.  Lea  commanded  four  hundred  men  and  the  Wisconsin 
regiment  numbered  five  hundred.  He  attacked  on  three  sides 
simultaneously,  Lusk  commanding  one  detachment,  Middleton 
one  and  Lea  the  third.  It  was  a  bloody  combat  and  a  desperate 
one.  Charges  and  counter-charges  followed  one  another 
rapidly.  The  Wisconsin  people  were  finally  driven  from  the 
field  Nvith  a  loss  of  seventy-five  killed  and  one  hundred  and  ten 
wounded,  while  Lea  lost  thirty-two  in  killed  and  sixty-five  in 
wounded,  capturing  the  camp  equipage,,  the  horses,  many  of  the 
arms,  and  all  of  the  stores  and  supplies  of  the  regiment.  Those 
who  survived  the  fight  survived  it  through  the  succor  and  the 
shelter  of  the  river  and  the  gunboats. 

It  was  here  that  John  Barker,  a  born  scout  and  sleepless 
Guerrilla,  brought  word  to  Lea  that  a  detachment  of  cavalry, 
numbering  sixty,  was  convoying  seven  pieces  of  heavy  artillery 
from  one  point  to  another  on  the  river,  from  a  fort  called 
McPherson  to  a  fort  called  Halleck.  He  determined  to  see 
about  these  horsemen  and  these  cannon.  He  set  forth  under 
cover  of  night  with  a  mounted  force  sixty  strong.  For  a  da}' 
he  lurked  with  his  band  in  an  immense  swamp.  In  this 
desolate  region  there  was  no  lack  of  guides.  On  the  next 
night  the  detachment  guarding  the  guns  had  halted  for 
the  evening  at  an  open  and  pleasant  place  four  miles  from 
where  Lea  was  crouching.  So  secure  did  the  officers  and 
men  believe  themselves  that  their  horses  had  been  turned 
loose  to  graze  and  their  sentinels  even  were  asleep.  The  sur- 
prise was  complete.  Some  sprang  to  their  arms  and  made  an 
attempt  to  resist,  but  in  vain ;  about  twenty  fell ;  forty  were 
captured.  None  fled — it  appeared  as  if  they  did  not  know  how 
to  fly.  A  huge  pile  was  made  of  the  wagons  and  pieces  of 
cannon.  Every  gun  was  stuffed  with  powder  and  fixed  with  its 
mouth  in  the  ground.  Then  great  piles  of  dry  cord-wood  were 
brought  and  piled  about  them.  A  torch  was  put  to  the  whole, 
and  then  there  came  a  great  explosion  and  a  great  destruction. 
In  every  way  the  blow  struck  had  been  complete  and  over- 
whelming. 

At  times  in  Mississippi,  at  times  in  Louisiana,  and  then  again 
in  Kentucky,  Lea  continued  to  operate  with  marked  ability  and 
success  until  the  end  of  the  war.  He  was  a  Guerrilla  in  the 
sense  and  to  the  extent  of  fighting  in  every  guise  and  fashion 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  281 

known  to  modern  warfare.  Any  weapon  fitted  his  hand  that 
gave  promise  of  success.  Ambuscade,  stratagem,  charge, 
decoy,  feigned  retreat,  savage  fighting  —  either  was  easy  of 
employment  if  profitable,  all  might  be  tried  in  a  single  battle  if 
without  them  all  the  victory  were  impossible. 

When  forced  to  come  out  from  Louisiana  and  quit  operations 
there,  Jarrette  and  Younger  went  to  Collin  county,  Texas, 
where  a  Confederate  officer  named  George  Jackson,  was  recruit- 
ing a  battalion  for  service  on  th£  plains.  They  took  service 
with  him,  eager  for  any  work,  however  desperate.  Encamped 
at  San  Saba,  the  battalion  was  quite  ready  to  march,  when  Gen- 
eral* Smith  ordered  Jackson  to  forego  the  expedition  and  report 
with  his  men  for  immediate  duty  in  Texas.  The  two  Guerrillas 
did  not  report.  Instead,  indeed,  of  going  to  Shreveport,  the 
headquarters  of  the  Trans-Mississippi  Department,  they  rode 
rapidly  to  Presidio  del  Norte  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  sought  to 
form  a  junction  with  Captain  Skillman,  operating  in  that  neigh- 
borhood. Four  days  before  their  arrival,  Skillman  and  thirty 
of  his  men  had  been  surrounded  by  two  hundred  Lipan  Indians, 
deserters,  and  highwaymen,  but  he  fought  desperately  and  until 
the  whole  detachment  were  killed.  In  no  manner  daunted, 
Younger  and  Jarrette,  with  twenty  followers,  crossed  into  Mexico 
and  waited.  By  and  by  Colonels  Roberts  and  Kennedy  came  to 
their  camp,  en  route  to  California.  Commissioned  by  the  Con- 
federate Secretary  of  War  to  recruit  a  regiment  of  Calitbrnians, 
they. requested  the  Guerrillas  to  accompany  them.  Eager  for 
any  perilous  enterprise,  Jarrette,  with  ten  men,  broke  through 
the  blockade  into  the  State,  and  Younger,  with  ten  more, 
marched  through  Arizona,  fought  seven  desperate  fights  with 
Apache  Indians,  and  finally  gained  the  rendezvous  at  Las 
Angeles,  finding  there  the  balance  of  the  party.  A  regiment 
was  soon  organized,  armed,  and  equipped,  and  just  as  it  got 
ready  for  active  operations,  Lee  surrendered  at  Appomattox 
Court  House.  Where  the  surrender  found  Cole  Younger,  there 
it  left  him  for  a  year,  trying  as  best  he  could  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood and  live  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 

The  character  of  this  man  to  many  has  been  a  curious  study, 
but  to  those  who  knew  him  well  there  is  nothing  about  it  of 
mystery  or  many  sidedness.     An  awful  provocation  drove  him- 
into  the  army.     He  was  never  a  blood-thirsty  or  a  merciless 


282  NOTED  GUERRILLAS  OR, 

man.  He  was  brave  to  recklessness,  desperate  to  rashness, 
remarkable  for  terrible  prowess  in  battle ;  but  he  was  never 
known  to  kill  a  prisoner.  On  the  contrary,  there  are  alive 
to-day  fully  two  hundred  Federal  soldiers  who  owe  their  lives  to 
Cole  Younger,  a  man  whose  father  had  been  brutally  murdered, 
whose  mother  had  been  hounded  to  her  death,  whose  family 
had  been  made  to  endure  the  torment  of  a  ferocious  persecu- 
tion, and  whose  kith  and  kin  even  to  most  remote  degrees  were 
plundered  and  imprisoned.  At  Lawrence  he  was  known  to  save 
a  score  of  lives,  in  twenty  other  desperate  combats  he  took 
prisoners  and  released  them ;  when  the  steamer  Sam  Gaty  was 
captured,  he  stood  there  as  a  protecting  presence  between*  the 
would-be  slayers  and  their  victims ;  at  Independence  he  saved 
more  lives ;  and  in  Louisiana  probably  fifty  Federals  escaped 
certain  death  through  Younger's  firmness  and  generosity.  His 
brother  James  did  not  go  into  the  war  until  1864,  and  was  a 
brave,  dauntless,  high-spirited  boy  who  never  killed  a  soldier  in 
his  life  save  in  fair  and  $pen  battle.  Cole  was  a  fair-haired, 
amiable,  generous  man,  devoted  in  his  friendships,  and  true  to 
his  word  and  to  comradeship.  In  intrepidity  he  was  never 
surpassed.  In  battle  he  never  had  those  to  go  where  he  would 
not  follow,  aye,  where  he  would  not  gladly  lead.  On  his  body 
to-day  there  are  the  scars  of  thirty-six  wounds.  He  was  a 
Guerrilla,  and  a  giant  among  a  band  of  Guerrillas,  but  he  was 
one  among  five  hundred  who  only  killed  in  open  and  honorable 
battle.  As  great  as  had  been  his  provocation,  he  never  mur- 
dered ;  as  brutal  as  had  been  the  treatment  of  every  one  near 
and  dear  to  him,  he  refused  always  to  take  vengeance  on  those 
who  were  innocent  of  the  wrongs,  and  who  had  taken  no  part 
in  the  deeds  which  drove  him,  a  boy,  into  the  ranks  of  the 
Guerrillas,  but  he  fought  as  a  soldier  who  fights  for  a  cause,  a 
creed,  an  idea,  or  for  glory.  He  was  a  hero,  and  he  was 
merciful. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

PREPARING   FOR   PRICE'S    RAID. 

Ql  OMETIME  in  August,  1864,  after  General  Smith  had  resolved 
O  upon  the  Missouri  campaign,  and  had  chusen  Gen.  Sterling 
Price  to  conduct  it,  this  latter  commander  sent  an  exceedingly 
bold  and  enterprising  man,  Capt.  John  Chestnut,  into  the  State 
with  a  communication  for  the  Guerrillas.  It  was  directed  to 
Todd,  then  operating  with  Quantrell's  old  company,  and  it 
contained  an  order  requiring  him  to  gather  together  as  many 
Guerrillas  as  possible  and  make  North  Missouri  as  hot  as  he 
could  for  the  militia.  Gen.  Price  reckoned  upon  keeping  the 
secrets  of  his  expedition  tolerably  well  covered  up,  and  cal- 
culated with  reasonable  certainty  upon  such  a  concentration  of 
Federal  troops  north  of  the  river  as  would  leave  the  garrisons 
and  the  field  forces  on  the  south  side,  if  not  insigniiicant,  at 
least  not  actively  aggressive. 

Chestnut  reached  Jackson  county  the  seventh  of  September, 
1864,  and  found  Todd's  camp  at  Judge  Gray's,  near  Bone  Hill, 
on  the  morning  of  the  eighth.  At  that  time  Todd's  men  were 
all  disbanded  but  six,  those  remaining  with  him  being  Ben 
Morrow,  Harrison  Trow,  Jesse  and  Frank  James,  Allen  Parmer 
and  James  Wilkinson.  Thanks  to  the  untiring  nursing  of  Mrs. 
Rudd,  and  to  the  indomitable  courage  of  the  boy  himself,  Jesse 
James  had  grown  better  in  three  weeks  of  his  terrible  wound, 
left  the  hands  of  his  physician  despite  her  most  earnest  protests, 
crossed  the  Missouri  river  on  a  raft,  and  joined  his  old  com- 
mander in  Jackson  county  more  like  a  ghost  than  a  Guerrilla. 
Todd  was  a  'man  of  prodigious  activity.  He  would  do  some- 
times in  an  hour  what  other  men  would  scarcely  do  in  a  week. 
With  him  the  flash  and  the  report  were  inseparably  blended  ; 
you  saw  the  lightning  and  you  felt  the  thunderbolt.  "Riding 


284  NOTED  GUEREILLAS,  OB 

will  do  you  good,"  he  said  to  Jesse  James,  within  twenty 
minutes  after  the  arrival  of  Chestnut,  "and  I  desire  you  and 
your  brother  Frank  to  hasten  fast  to  Poole  in  Lafayette— order 
him  to  gather  up  his  men  instantly,  cross  the  Missouri  river  at 
or  near  Hill's  Landing,  and  be  somewhere  in  Howard  county  by 
the  twentieth.  When  you  have  executed  your  orders  return  to 
me  as  fast  as  you  went." 

In  a  day  the  musterings  became  active  and  energetic.  Poole 
soon  had  fifty-two  men  well  in  hand,  and  Todd,  at  the  Bone  Hill 
rendezvous,  fifty-six.  Lieut.  George  Shepherd,  on  the  day  of 
the  12th,  was  given  eleven  men  and  ordered  to  cross  over  into 
Clay  county  and  begin  the  work  Gen.  Price  required  of  the 
Guerrillas.  He  chose  for  the  enterprise:  Frank  and  Jesse 
James,  Oil  Shepherd,  Allen  Farmer,  James  Wilkinson,  William 
Gaw,  Richard  Johnson,  Harrison  Trow,  James  Johnson,  and  the 
two  brothers  Nolan,  but  try  how  he  would,  not  a  skiff,  not  a 
make-believe  of  a  boat  of  any  kind,  not  a  raft  or  a  canoe  could 
be  found  anywhere  at  Sibley,  the  point  of  crossing,  or  above  or 
below  it  either  way  for  miles  and  miles.  Failing  in  everything 
else,  he  fell  at  last  upon  a  horse  trough  and  launched  it  boldly 
upon  the  stream.  Wilkinson  and  Oil  Shepherd  were  the  oars- 
men and  made  a  trial  trip  alone,  exploring  the  further  shore 
with  great  minuteness  and  making  by  their  intelligent  examina- 
tion a  sudden  ambuscade  impossible.  Well  across  afterwards  in 
an  hour,  Shepherd  pushed  rapidly  on  into  the  very  heart  of  the 
militia  country,  halting  for  breakfast  at  Judge  Level's,  a  mile 
from  Centreville,  now  Kearney.  It  is  probable  that  the  nature 
of  the  work  performed  by  the  Southern  women  during  the  war 
will  never  be  understood  fully  nor  to  its  most  important  extent. 
Without  their  aid,  Guerrilla  warfare  would  have  been  heavily 
handicapped.  Born  spies,  they  listened  well,  saw  a  great  deal, 
and  reported  exactly.  Infinite  in  resource,  quick  at  ruse  or 
stratagem,  and  bold  as  the  best  of  any  band  that  fought  for 
freedom,  they  carried  information  at  any  hour,  and  faced  any 
peril  or  held  their  own  against  any  extremity  if  something  prac- 
tical could  be  suggested  to  an  enterprising  soldier,  or  something 
tangible  done  to  make  a  blow  decisive.  Of  this  class  of.  women 
— fearless  in  danger  and  intensely  Southern  in  the  midst  of  an 
iron  occupation — were  Mrs.  Level  and  her  two  daughters, 
Louise  and  Georgie,  Mrs.  Minerva  Fox,  and  her  two  daughters, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  285 

Georgie  and  Cassic,  Miss  Mollie  King  and  Miss  Kate  Burnes. 
Couriers  or  scouts,  nurses  or  physicians,  under  the  ban  or  free 
to  come  and  go,  they  established,  in  conjunction  with  other 
ladies,  a  tolerably  accurate  system  of  signals,  and  found  hiding 
places  and  healing  for  several  score  of  crippled  Guerrillas  who 
could  neither  walk  nor  ride. 

After  breakfast  Lieutenant  Shepherd  marched  into  Centre- 
ville,  had  all  of  the  unshod  horses  shod,  and  sent  an  old  citizen 
of  Southern  proclivities,  into  Liberty,  fifteen  miles  distant,  with 
information  to  the  effect  that  the  bushwhackers  from  Jackson 
were  swarming  in  Clay.  Todd  crossed  the  Missouri  on  the  13th 
where  Shepherd  had  on  the  12th,  and  in  the  same  manner, 
Richard  Burnes,  one  of  his  soldiers,  performing  the  difficult  feat 
of  swimming  his  horse  from  bank  to  bank,  sitting  himself  erect 
in  the  saddle,  four  heavy  dragoon  revolvers  buckled  about  him, 
together  with  the  necessary  ammunition.  On  the  14th  Todd 
joined  his  lieutenant  and  planned  an  ambushment  for  Captain 
William  Garth,  who  commanded  the  jpost  at  Liberty.  Garth, 
duly  informed  of  Shepherd's  appearance  in  Centreville,  picked 
sixt}7"  of  his  best  men  and  started  upon  his  trail.  Todd,  mean- 
while, had  withdrawn  to  some  timber  near  the  residence  of  Mr. 
Andrew  Means,  a  sturdy  old  Southern  patriot  whom  no  threats 
could  intimidate  nor  dangers  deter.  In  front  of  this  timber 
there  was  a  level  meadow  three  hundred  yards  across.  If  Garth 
once  entered  upon  this  meadow  and  marched  over  it  to  the 
timber  where  Todd  watched,  waiting  in  the  saddle,  no  power 
this  side  heaven  could  save  him  from  destruction.  And  it 
seemed  at  one  time  as  if  he  might  do  so.  He  came  within  a 
mile  of  the  ambushment,  drove  in  the  Guerrilla  picquets, 
followed  them  up  vigorously  as  if  meaning  business,  when  a 
professed  Southern  man  named  Swinney  halted  Garth  in  the 
midst  of  his  advance,  made  plain  to  him  the  nature  of  the  trap, 
told  what  kind  of  devils  Todd  led  in  battle,  and  then  bade  him 
go  forward  if  he  felt  like  it.  Garth  countermarched  instead 
and  hastened  back  to  Liberty. 

On  the  sixteenth,  now  well  advanced  into  Ray,  a  citizen 
informed  Todd  that  a  company  of  forty-five  militia  were 
stationed  at  Shaw's  blacksmith  shop,  in  the  northeastern  portion 
of  the  count}7.  Todd,  selecting  ten  men  as  an  advance,  put  in 
command  of  them  a  new  comer  named  John  Thrailkill.  He  was 


286  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

a  Missourian  turned  Apache.  He  slept  little ;  he  could  trail  a 
column  in  the  starlight;  his  only  home  was  on  horseback, 
and  who  had  had  already  mixed  with  the  warp  and  the  woof  of  his 
young  life  the  savage  agony  of  tears.  Thrailkill,  when  the  war 
began,  was  a  young  painter  in  Northwest  Missouri,  as  gentle  as 
he  was  industrious.  Loving  a  beautiful  girl,  and  loved  ardently 
in  return,  he  left  her  one  evening  to  be  absent  a  week.  At  its 
expiration  they  were  to  be  married.  Generally  the  woman  who 
is  loved  is  safe,  but  this  one  was  in  peril.  Her  father,  an  inva- 
lid of  fifty,  was  set  upon  by  some  militia  and  slain,  and  the 
daughter,  bereft  of  her  reason  at  the  sight  of  gray  hairs 
dabbled  in  blood,  went  from  paroxysm  to  paroxysm,  until  she 
too  was  a  corpse.  The  wildest  of  her  ravings  were  mingled  with 
the  name  of  her  lover.  It  was  the  last  articulate  thing  her  lips 
lingered  over  or  uttered.  He  came  back  as  a  man  in  a  dream. 
He  kissed  the  dead  reverently.  He  went  to  the  grave  as  one 
walks  in  his  sleep.  It  was  bitter  cold,  and  some  one  remarked 
it  to  him.  uls  it?"  he  said.  "  I  had  not  felt  it."  Another 
friend  tried  to  fashion  something  of  solacement.  The  savage 
intensity  of  the  answer  shocked  him:  "  Blood  for  blood ;  every 
hair  in  her  head  shall  have  a  sacrifice ! ' '  The  next  day  John 
Thrailkill  began  to  kill.  He  killed  all  over  Northwest  Missouri. 
Of  the  twenty  militia  who  were  concerned  in  the  murder  of  his 
sweetheart's  father,  and,  indirectly  in  the  murder  of  his  sweet- 
heart, he  killed  eighteen.  The  remaining  two  returned  to  Ohio 
where  they  lived  originally  and  lost  themselves  in  the  midst  of 
an  Eastern  army  corps.  Getting  closer  and  closer  to  Todd,  of 
course  as  he  was  forced  to  fall  back,  fighting,  he  finally  took 
service  in  his  immediate  ranks  and  became  as  the  balance  a  des- 
perate Guerrilla  not  afraid  to  die. 

Thrailkill's'advance,  composed  of  Dick  Kinney,  John  Jackson, 
Andy  Walker,  Dan  Vaughn,  Andy  McGuire,  Frank  and  Jesse 
James,  Sim  Whitsett,  Oil  Shepherd,  Ben  Morrow,  Hence  Privin, 
Harrison  Trow  and  Si  Gordon,  took  the  road  at  a  trot.  It  was 
to  make  seven  miles  an  hour,  keep  one-half  mile  ahead  of  the 
main  body,  charge  everything  dressed  in  blue,  and  halt  within 
a  mile  of  the  blacksmith  shop.  In  two  hours  fourteen  miles 
had  been  made  ;  to  the  enemy's  position  it  was  just  a  mile  further. 
Camped  in  a  black  oak  grove,  the  militia  haft  on  one  side  a 
large  corn  field,  on  the  other  a  meadow.  In  the  midst  of  them 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  287 

a  broad  lane  ran,  fit  almost  for  a  column  to  ride  through,  com- 
pany front.  As  the  Guerrillas  emerged  into  the  open  and 
entered  the  lane  at  a  walk,  they  were  mistaken  for  friends  and 
permitted  to  advance  unchallenged  to  within  two  hundred  yards 
of  the  camp.  Then  a  wild  yell  was  heard,  and  then  came  that 
peculiar  rush  so  terrible  in  its  gathering  strength  and  so  resist- 
less. Todd,  Walker,  Thrailkill,  Trow,  Jackson  and  Kinney 
rode  abreast  in  the  front  rank ;  Whitsett,  George,  Oil  and 
Frank  Shepherd,  and  Ben  Morrow  in  the  second ;  Hudspeth, 
Coger,  and  McGuire  in  the  third,  and  behind  them  Hendrix, 
Gregg,  Gordon,  the  Jameses,  the  Archie  brothers,  and  William 
Hulse,  all  striving  furiously  to  be  the  first  in  at  the  death.  Ten 
of  the  militia  were  slaughtered  helplessly  in  camp,  and  the 
balance  scattered  to  the  corn  field,  some  without  guns  .and  some 
without  pistols.  Instead  of  a  battle  there  was  a  battue.  The 
Guerrillas  hunted  them  as  wild  game  is  hunted,  laughing  loud 
when  one  jumped  up  from  his  hiding-place  here  or  there  and 
was  shot  down.  John  Jackson,  Kinney,  and  the  two  Jameses 
were  together  when  they  flushed  four  from  a  single  covert, 
killing  them,  as  they  imagined,  and  passing  on.  One,  however, 
was  not  only  not  dead,  but  he  was  wicked  and  unhurt.  He 
rose  up  in  the  rear  of  these  four  Guerrillas — who  in  the  eager- 
ness of  the  hunt  had  not  taken  time  to  gather  together  the  arms 
of  the  slain — and  shot  Jackson  in  the  back  with  a  Belgian  musket 
carrying  an  ounce  ball.  Almost  before  he  had  touched  the 
ground  Jesse  James  avenged  him,  firing  twice  into  the  head  of 
the  militiaman  as  he  stood  over  him  with  his  horse.  Thirty- 
eight  of  the  forty-five  Federals  were  killed,  and  forty  horses 
were  captured,  together  with  considerable  camp  equipage  and 
commissary  stores.  Todd  lost  but  one  man,  Jackson,  who  was 
mortally  wounded.  Tenderly  cared  for  by  James  Hendrix  and 
John  Coger,  he  was  driven  for  fifteen  miles  as  gently  as  possible 
in  a  buggy  and  placed  in  a  safe  spot  on  Wakenda  river.  On  the 
fifteenth  he  died  calmly,  and  his  comrades  buried  him.  One 
by  one  the  old  guard  was  going.  John  Jackson,  a  hero  in  fifty 
desperate  combats,  died  as  he  had  lived,  one  of  the  bravest 
men  who  ever  buckled  on  a  pistol. 

A  little  before  dawn,  on  the  morning  of  the  16th,  Todd  was 
in  front  of  Keytesville,  Chariton  county.  Eighty  militia  held 
the  town,  occupying  the  large  brick  court  house  there,  a  really 


288  NOTED  GUEMEILLAS,  OR 

formidable  fortification,  capable  easily  of  resisting  the  onset  A 
a  thousand  men.  Todd,  unchallenged,  surrounded  this  bu  id- 
ing  and  demanded  an  unconditional  surrender.  So  secure 
had  the  garrison  felt  in  the  possession  of  their  fort,  and  so 
unused  had  they  been  to  the  sudden  surprises  and  rougher 
realities  of  war,  that  no  guards  were  out  about  the  court  house, 
nor  any  picquets  upon  t&e  streets.  The  militia  commander 
parleyed  awhile,  but  to  no  purpose.  Todd  promised  simply  to 
spare  the  lives  of  his  men,  if  a  capitulation  came  in  five 
minutes ;  if  not,  then  war  to  the  vanquished.  Up  went  the 
white  flag,  and  out  marched  eighty  militiamen,  furious  when  it 
was  too  late  at  being  trapped  and  taken  by  scarcely  sixty 
Guerrillas.  With  the  militia  there  were  also  taken  four  hundred 
muskets,  three  hundred  shot-guns,  one  hundred  army  revolvers, 
two  pieces  of  artillery  and  forty-four  splendid  horses.  The 
muskets,  shot-guns  and  the  cannon  were  all  piled  together  in 
the  court  house  and  the  court  house  burnt.  The  prisoners  were 
paroled — the  first  and  the  last  time  in  his  career  that  Todd  ever 
had  been  known  to  be  merciful.  His  honor,  however,  had  been 
pledged,  and  if  any  desperate  man  among  his  following  had  spilled 
even  so  much  as  one  drop  of  any  militiaman's  blood,  there,  per- 
sonally, and  pistol  to  pistol,  would  Todd  have  exacted  of  him 
accountability.  Later  on,  and  while  doing  picquet  duty  outside 
of  the  town,  Oil  Shepherd  caught  and  killed  the  sheriff  of  Chari- 
ton,  a  most  obnoxious  Radical,  but  he  was  not  included  in  the 
terms  of  capitulation  nor  was  he  connected  in  any  military 
manner  with  the  garrison.  Among  the  horses  appropriated  were 
three  elegent  race  mares,  the  admiration  of  the  entire  command. 
These,  in  the  distribution,  fell  to  Jesse  James,  Chat  Rennick 
and  Harrison  Trow. 

On  the  march  out  Andy  McGuire  and  Frank  James  caught 
and  killed  two  militia  who  fired  on  them  from  a  corn-field  as 
they  rode  by,  lagging  somewhat  in  the  rear  of  the  column. 
James  Younger,  scarcely  old  enough  to  do  service  of  any  kind, 
had  yet  joined  Todd  as  a  boy  and  had  already  made  a  name  for 
himself  in  a  command  where  personal  prowess  alone  brought 
laurels. 

Todd  entered  Roanoke  and  occupied  it  for  a  short  time — just 
long:  enough  to  let  all  North  Missouri  know  that  he  was  on  the 
war-path — and  then  cut  the  telegraph  wires  for  some  distance 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  289 

and  tore  up  the  posts.  In  the  extreme  eastern  part  of  Howard 
on  the  17th,  Todd  halted  all  the  day  of  the  18th  on  the  Roche- 
port  and  Sturgeon  road,  and  rested  both  men  and  horses. 
About  three  o'clock,  however,  fifteen  hundred  Federals  march- 
ing down  towards  Rocheport  forced  Todd  away  from  the  road 
four  miles  and  into  some  heavy  timber,  where  he  rested.  Oil 
Shepherd,  Frank  Shepherd,  Richard  Kinney,  Dan  Vaughn, 
Press  Webb  and  Jacob  Mead,  having  been  sent  out  earlier  on  a 
scout,  returned  to  camp  in  time  to  be  furiously  attacked  and 
furiously  followed  for  several  miles,  fighting  as  they  ran.  The 
chase  ended,  however,  as  all  such  chases  always  ended  to  the 
Federals,  in  a  loss  altogether  disproportionate  to  the  numbers 
engaged.  Out  of  fifty  pursuers  eight  were  killed  and  seven 
wounded.  Kinney  lost  his  horse,  and  Oil  Shepherd  took  him 
up  behind  him  under  a  rattling  fire  and  bore  him  safely  away. 
This  was  the  only  casualty. 

Day  dawned  on  the  19th,  cold  and  raw.  At  intervals  an  east 
wind  brought  ruin  in  torrents.  Nevertheless,  it  was  to  be  a  day 
of  murder.  Todd  moved  camp  only  a  few  miles,  when  the 
muddy  roads  and  the  inhospitable  weather  drove  him  into  it 
again.  Lioutenant  Shepherd,  taking  with  him  Kinney,  Andy 
McGuire,  Harrison  Trow,  Lafe  Privin,  Jesse  and  Frank  James, 
went  scouting  along  the  Sturgeon  road  until  one  hundred  and 
fifty  Federals  were  met — seventy-five  infantry  and  seventy-five 
cavalry  —  escorting  seventeen  wagons.  The  column  was  ap- 
proaching Rocheport,  with  forty  cavalry  in  advance,  the  infantry 
divided  up  among  the  wagons,  and  in  the  rear  the  balance  of 
the  horsemen.  It  was  probable  that  one  of  Todd's  charges 
would  make  of  the  march  a  massacre.  He  was  four  miles  to  the 
left  of  the  enemy's  line  of  travel  when  Jesse  James  carried  to 
him  swiftly  the  news  of  the  situation,  but  by  the  rapid  move- 
ment of  half  an  hour  he  threw  himself  across  the  main  road  and 
dashed  at  the  cavalry  in  front  with  the  old  yell  and  the  old 
result.  Todd  killed  the  first  Federal  in  the  fight,  a  handsome 
young  captain  well  ahead  of  his  men  and  striving  to  hold  them 
for  a  grapple.  Then  the  on-going  tide  inundated  everything. 
Those  first  to  the  wagons,  after  breaking  through  the  covering 
cavalry  as  though  it  had  been  tissue  paper  i  notched  across  a 
race-course,  were  Todd,  raging  like  a  lion,  TiiraiJkill,  the  two 
Jameses,  Gordon,  McGuire,  Hulse,  Oil  Shepherd,  William  and 
19 


290  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Hugh  Archie,  Mead,  Kinney,  Tom  Todd,  Privin,  Glasscock,  De 
Hart,  and  Vaughn.  Death  came  to  men  so  quickly  there  that  some- 
thing superhuman  seemed  to  be  inflicting  it.  Corduroyed  with 
corpses,  the  muddy  road  in  a  measure  became  firm.  Inextri- 
cably entangled,  men  and  mules  fell  together.  Past  the  infantry, 
or  rather  the  remains  of  it,  dashed  the  two  Jameses,  De  Hart, 
Kinney,  Hulse,  Mead,  and  Vaughn,  Jesse  James  killing  as  he 
galloped  a  Federal  lieutenant  two  hundred  yards  from  the  road. 
This  shot  was  a  most  remarkable  one,  and  for  some  time  was 
the  talk  of  the  command.  The  lieutenant  was  in  the  act  of 
firing,  having  just  lifted  a  carbine  to  his  face,  when  James  put  a 
dragoon  pistol  ball  into  his  head.  The  rout,  if,  indeed,  it  were 
not  better  called  a  butchery,  lasted  until  dark.  Ninety-two 
cavalry  and  infantry  had  been  killed.  All  the  wagons  were 
burnt,  together  with  fifty-four  Ballard  rifles,  abandoned  by  the 
enemy  in  their  frantic  efforts  to  escape.  Each  of  the  seventeen 
wagons  had  six  splendid  mules  to  it,  but  every  mule  was  killed. 
In  burning  the  wagons  three  negro  drivers  were  burned  up  with 
them,  the  Guerrillas  not  taking  the  trouble  to  drag  them  out 
from  the  flames.  Driving  another  wagon  was  a  well  known 
Southern  citizen  who  had  been  pressed  into  service  and  forced 
to  accompany  the  expedition.  Before  he  could  either  explain 
the  surroundings  or  make  himself  known  to  the  Guerrillas,  he 
was  shot  dead.  The  wagons  were  loaded  with  ammunition  and 
clothing,  and  Todd,  ordering  each  of  his  fifty-three  men  to  help 
himself  to  a  suit,  the  line  looked  as  blue  after  the  metamor- 
phosis as  any  Federal  line  in  Missouri.  He  had  but  one  man 
hurt  in  the  fight,  Bart  Lewis,  of  Platte  county,  and  he  only 
slightly  in  the  leg.  Dick  Glasscock  had  a  horse  killed.  Tom 
Todd  had  two  men  wounded,  Jo  Davis,  of  Randolph  county, 
who  afterwards  died  of  his  wound,  and  John  M.  Taylor.  The 
Federals  did  not  fight.  After  the  first  volley,  a  volley  fired  at 
long  range  and  with  scarcely  the  semblance  of  steadiness,  every- 
thing was  flight  or  panic.  Ere  the  infantry  knew  the  nature  of 
the  attack  they  were  overridden.  The  cavalry  in  the  rear  ran 
away  while  their  comrades  in  the  front  were  being  butchered. 
The  scene  after  the  conflict  was  sickening.  Charred  human 
remains  stuck  out  from  the  mouldering  wagon  heaps.  Death, 
in  all  forms  and  shapes  of  agony  made  itself  visible.  Limbs 
were  kneaded  into  the  deep  mud  of  the  roadway,  and  faces, 


WILL  HULSE. 


LEE  McMURTRY. 


T.  F.  MAUPIN. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  291 

under  the  iron  feet  of  the  horses,  crushed  into  shapelessness. 

A  long  night  march  and  a  dark  one  succeeded  to  the  evening 
of  the  fight,  but  by  sunrise  the  next  morning  Todd  had  formed 
a  junction  with  Quantrell,  Poole,  Anderson,  Perkins,  and 
Thomas  Todd,  these  two  last  being  Confederate  officers. 
Aggregated,  the  force  numbered  two  hundred  and  seventy- 
seven  rank  and  file,  not  a  formidable  force  to  do  effectively  the 
important  work  Gen.  Price  required  of  it.  Poole  commanded 
fifty-two  men,  George  Todd  fifty-three,  Anderson  sixty-seven, 
Quantrell  sixteen,  Thomas  Todd  forty- two,  and  Perkins  forty- 
seven.  All  eyes  were  now  turned  towards  Fayette,  the  county 
seat  of  Howard  county,  eleven  miles  north  of  the  rendezvous, 
where  four  hundred  Federal  soldiers  did  garrison  duty,  strongly 
fortified  and  capable  of  stout  resistance.  The  command  was 
first  offered  to  Quantrell,  but  he  refused  it ;  next  to  Anderson, 
who  accepted.  Quantrell  argued  in  the  counsel  against  attack- 
ing Fayette,  and  voted  against  it  as  a  piece  of  military  folly. 
So  did  George  Todd ;  but  the  balance  overbore  them  and 
decided  to  make  the  venture. 

On  the  morning  of  September  20th,  1864,  the  March  towards 
Fayette  began.  Anderson  moved  first,  Poole  next,  Stuart  next, 
and  Quantrell  fourth.  In  the  rear  were  George  Todd,  Perkins, 
and  Thomas  Todd.  Fayette  had  a  strong  stockade  on  the  north  as 
a  defensive  work,  and  in  the  town  itself,  both  the  court  house 
and  a  female  academy  were  stoutly  fortified.  Anderson,  Poole, 
and  Quantrell  were  to  charge  through  Fayette  and  invest  the 
stockade,  while  the  two  Todds  and  Perkins  were  to  look  after 
the  buildings  inside  the  corporation.  Tom  Todd  led  the  ad- 
vance in  the  attack  on  the  town,  as  Fayette  was  his  home. 

Fayette  was  reached  about  eleven  o'clock  and  attacked 
furiously.  Anderson,  Poole,  and  Quantrell  dashed  through  the 
square,  losing  some  of  their  best  men,  and  the  two  Todds  and 
Perkins  faced  the  two  fortified  buildings  and  did  what  was 
possible  to  be  done,  bare  breasts  against  brick  and  mortar. 
Sergeant  McMurtry,  of  George  Todd's  company,  fell  first  and 
close  to  the  court  house  fence.  Oil  Thompson  was  mortally 
wounded  ;  Perkins  lost  ten  men  in  as  many  minutes,  Tom  Todd 
seven,  and  Poole  eight.  Anderson  lost  in  killed,  Garrett,  Cra- 
vens, Agen,  Grosvenor,  and  Newman  Wade,  and  in  wounded, 
Thomas  Maupin,  Silas  King,  William  Stone  and  Lawrence  Wilcox. 


292  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Lieut.  Little,  one  of  the  oldest  of  Quantrell's  veterans,  was  badly 
wounded.  Every  attack  was  repulsed,  both  upon  the  court 
house  and  the  stockade,  and  the  Guerrillas  retreated  finally  but 
unpursued,  with  a  loss  of  eighteen  killed  and  forty-two  wound- 
ed. Richard  Kinney  and  Jesse  James  volunteered  to  bring 
McMurtry  out  from  under  the  guns  of  the  enemy,  and  they 
dashed  in  afoot  and  succeeded  safely  amid  a  shower  of  balls. 
Quan trell,  infuriated  at  the  loss  of  so  many  splendid  fellows, 
fought  with  a  recklessness  unusual  with  him.  Leading  in  person 
three  desperate  assaults  upon  the  stockade,  and  wounded 
severely  in  the  second  assault,  he  would  have  com- 
manded a  fourth  if  Poole  and  Anderson,  convinced  at  last  of 
the  uselessness  qf  the  sacrifice,  had  not  shown  the  insanity  of 
the  effort  and  argued  him  out  of  his  reckless  purpose.  Many 
feats  of  individual  and  heroic  daring  were  performed.  Thomas 
Todd,  his  long  red  beard  waving  in  the  wind,  and  his  black 
plume  floating  free  where  the  fight  was  hottest,  dashed  up  once 
to  the  main  gate  of  the  court  house  and  emptied  six  chambers 
of  a  revolver  into  a  door  from  which  twenty  muskets  were  pro- 
truding. Peyton  Long,  losing  his  horse  early  in  the  fight, 
rushed  desperately  into  a  corral  under  cover  of  the  stockade, 
coolly  chose  the  horse  which  suited  him  best,  mounted  him 
bareback  and  galloped  away  unhurt  into  his  own  ranks  again* 
Harrison  Trow,  procuring  from  a  citizen  an  excellent  shot- 
gun, crept  to  a  sheltered  place  close  to  the  Academy  and 
silenced  one  window  of  it  by  the  accuracy  and  the  rapidity  of 
his  fire.  He  was  so  cool  and  so  calm  always  in  danger  that  his 
comrades  called  him  "Iceberg."  The  night  of  the  retreat 
Oliver  Johnson  died.  Only  twenty-five  years  of  age,  he  was 
six  feet  two  in  height  and  large  in  proportion.  Of  immense 
physical  strength,  in  a  charge  or  a  close  hand  to  hand  fight,  he 
was  simply  resistless.  Wounded  six  times,  the  seventh  wound 
killed  him.  To  find  one  to  fill  his  place  who  could  be  braver, 
more  deadly,  or  more  constantly  in  the  saddle  was  to  hunt  for 
gold  dust  in  a  straw  pile.  There  were  none  such.  E.  P.  De 
Hart  took  Johnson's  place,  and  was  sent  to  the  rear  to  hold  it 
with  John  McCorkle,  John  Barker,  Frank  Lester,  Jack  Will, 
James  Clayton,  John  Rains  and  Pate  Crew,  where  he  did  some 
splendid  fighting. 
On  the  twenty-second,  Huntsville,  in  Randolph  county,  was 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BORDER 

surrounded  and  ordered  to  capitulate,  but  its  garrison  of  three 
hundred  militia  refused  to  surrender  upon  any  terms,  and  Ander- 
son— remembering  the  sore  lesson  of  Fayette — did  not  even 
attempt  an  assault.  On  the  twenty-third,  after  the  track  of  the 
North  Missouri  Railroad  had  been  torn  up  for  several  miles  and 
the  telegraph  lines  interfered  with,  Quantrell  separated  himself 
and  his  sixteen  men  from  the  main  body  of  Guerrillas  and 
returned  into  Howard.  In  Audrain  county  on  the  twenty- 
fourth,  in  Monroe  on  the  twenty-fifth,  and  back  again  in  Audrain 
on  the  twenty-sixth,  Anderson,  still  in  command,  killed  unfortu- 
nate militia  upon  every  hand,  broke  up  communication  with  the 
various  posts,  spread  terror  in  every  direction,  and  caused 
above  everything  else  that  concentration  of  Federal  troops  so 
much  desired  by  the  Confederate  authorities. 

From  his  camp  at  Singleton's  barn,  four  miles  upon  the  south- 
east, Anderson  moved  into  Centralia  early  on  the  morning  of 
the  twenty-seventh.  He  had  with  him  his  own  company,  Poole, 
and  ten  of  Poole's  men.  Todd  did  not  accompany  him  to  the 
town,  nor  did  John  Thrailkill,  who  had  joined  him  after  the 
Fayette  fight  with  fifty  new  Guerrillas.  These  two  chieftains, 
together  with  Thomas  Todd,  remained  upon  their  arms,  awaiting 
developments. 

The  eleven  o'clock  train  from  St.  Louis  would  not  be  due  for 
an  hour,  and  Anderson  employed  the  interval  in  levying  contri- 
butions upon  the  citizens  and  taking  from  the  stores  such  things 
as  were  needed  by  his  soldiers.  By  and  by  a  keen  whistle  was 
heard,  and  the  dull  thunder  of  advancing  cars.  The  train, 
halting  at  the  depot,  had  Federals  upon  it,  some  with  and  some 
without  guns.  Some  were  going  up  the  road  on  duty,  and 
some  to  their  homes  on  furlough.  When  Anderson  charged  the 
<sars,  those  who  had  muskets  crowded  to  the  windows  and  upon 
the  platforms  and  fired  briskly  at  the  Guerrillas.  Such  resist- 
ance, however,  was  mere  child's  play.  Probably  none  would 
have  been  spared,  even  though  there  had  been  an  unconditional 
surrender,  but  there  was  no  earthly  hope  surely  after  the  shoot- 
ing of  a  single  musket.  In  all  probability  the  soldiers  on  the 
train  were  frightened  beyond  discretion.  Before  the  cars  had 
scarcely  stopped,  one  of  them  put  his  head  from  a  window  and 
cried  out:  "Lord!  Lord!  there  is  Bill  Anderson!  Boys,  go 
to  praying!"  "Pray,  hell!"  swore  a  huge  Iowa  sergeant, 


2'J4  SOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

thrusting  a  musket  out  and  firing  as  he  spoke,  "  it  is  the  hour 
of  battle.  The  devil  and  all  his  angels  are  here!"  The  fight 
should  not  be  called  a  fight.  A  few  shots  from  the  Guerrillas  at 
close  range  cleared  the  platforms  and  the  windows.  White 
handkerchiefs  were  waved  in  every  direction,  and  a  formal  sur- 
render had  in  a  very  short  time.  It  would  have  been  better  for 
the  Federals  to  have  fought  to  the  death  after  they  had  thought 
it  best  to  fight  at  all.  All  who  were  on  the  train  were  formed  in 
line,  and  then  the  work  of  winnowing  began.  Among  the  citi- 
zens was  the  Hon.  James  S.  Rollins,  of  Boone  county.  Some- 
times he  relates  his  experience  of  this  terrible  event,  and  if  in 
some  places  the  narrative  is  but  the  story  of  a  bloody  tragedy, 
in  others  the  humor  is  quaint  and  picturesque.  Who  was  he? 
Anderson  asked.  "Oh!"  replied  Rollins,  as  mild  and  as  bland 
as  a  wind  which  had  just  left  the  lilacs,  "I  am  Mr.  Richard 
Robinson" — or  whatever  the  name  was  that  just  then  came 
uppermost  in  his  mind — "and  I  live  only  a  few  miles  back. 
You  must  know  where  I  live.  It  is  a  house  that  has  a  large 
grove  on  the  north,  and  two  white  chimneys,  and  some  fruit  trees 
in  the  front  yard,  and  is  a  popular  place  for  the  boys.  They 
stop  there  often,"  and  here  the  Major  looked  into  the  cold,  hard 
eyes  of  Anderson  and  winked.  That  wink  made  him  a  Guer- 
rilla. Certainly  Anderson  knew  the  house.  But  for  fear  he 
might  forget  it,  Rollins  took  him  familiarly  by  the  coat  and  led 
him  to  where  an  unobstructed  view  might  be  had  of  the  great 
stretch  of  prairie  southward  from  the  town.  The  house  was 
again  pointed  out,  its  surroundings  minutely  described,  and 
again  the  confidential  assurance  given  that  it  was  "a  great  place 
for  the  boys."  The  welcome  was  so  hospitable  there.  Anderson 
was  satisfied,  but  by  and  by  the  Major  felt  the  need  of  a  super- 
human effort.  He  carried  with  him  everywhere  a  little  hand 
valise  which  might  contain  one  thing  or  another  thing.  At  any 
rate  a  curious  Guerrilla  would  see  for  himself.  He  snatched  the 
satchel  from  Rollins'  hand  and  tore  it  open.  There  were 
clothes  there — socks,  handkerchiefs,  collars,  drawers,  towels; 
but — oh !  horror  of  horrors,  there  upon  all  the  balance  of  the 
heap  was  an  immaculate  white  shirt  bearing  in  bold  and  black 
relief  the  name  of  Jam*- s  S.  Rollins!  His  heart  stood  still.  He 
saw  first  what  might  soon  become  to  be  a  deaUi  warrant  because 
he  knew  it  was  there,  and  he  laughingly  laid  a  hand  upon  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         295 

shirt  and  as  laughingly  spoke  to  the  Guerrilla:  "My  friend,  I 
have  only  one  shirt  left  and  I  have  to  return  to  St.  Louis  to- 
night. Of  what  use  is  a  white  shirt  to  you?  It  can  not  be 
washed.  Soldiers  on  a  raid  do  not  wash  things.  It  gets  soiled 
in  a  day.  It  does  not  become  you.  It  is  not  military."  The 
Guerrilla  did  not  understand  what  Rollins  understood,  nor 
did  he  know  what  Rollins  knew.  As  he  grasped  the  shirt  he 
grasped  it  firmly  just  over  the  tell-tale  name,  now  seeming  to 
get  blacker  and  blacker,  and  to  enlarge  and  grow  out  from 
under  his  extended  palm.  The  Guerrilla  hesitated.  "  Come, 
come,"  pleaded  the  Major,  "it's  a  little  thing  for  you  to  do 
me.  I've  been  feeding  bushwhackers  ever  since  the  war  began 
and  I  have  yet  the  first  cent  to  take  from  a  single  one  of  them 
in  pay  for  anything.  Give  me  my  shirt."  The  Guerrilla  yi2lded 
and  the  Major  crushed  the  hateful  thing  back  as  if  it  had  been 
a  spy  and  human.  Anderson  declared  afterwards,  however,  that 
even  if  Major  Rollins  had  been  identified  he  should  not  have 
been  harmed.  He  had  not  proscribed  Southern  people,  he  had 
been  merciful  to  women  and  children,  and  the  Guerrillas  re- 
spected him  not  a  little. 

It  was  a  ghastly  line  which  at  last  separated  the  citizens  from 
the  soldiers.  Twenty-four  of  the  latter  and  one  citizen  who 
wore  a  soldier's  blouse,  fell  upon  that  side  of  the  line  where 
death,  yet  invisible,  waited  grimly  in  ambush  for  its  prey.  In 
twenty  minutes  more  all  were  killed.  The  train  was  next  set  on 
fire,  and  the  engine,  with  a  full  head  of  steam  on,  dashed  away 
like  the  wind  towards  Sturgeon.  Then  the  depot  felt  the  torch,  and 
finally  a  gravel  train,  following  close  behind  the  passenger  train, 
was  taken  possession  of  and  destroyed.  After  indeed  killing 
everything  in  and  about  the  town  that  looked,  talked  or  acted 
like  a  Federal  soldier,  and  after  destroying  completely  all  those 
things  which  he  thought  might  be  of  the  least  use  to  the  military 
authorities  of  Missouri,  Anderson  led  his  men  back  to  Single- 
ton's pasture  and  reported  to  Todd  the  nature  of  the  morning's 
work.  Afterwards,  and  later  on  in  the  day,  it  was  decided  to 
put  George  Todd  in  command  of  the  entire  force  and  await 
further  developments.  These,  bloody  beyond  all  precedent, 
were  not  long  in  coming. 

At  Paris,  in  Monroe  county,  there  had  been  a  Federal 
garrison  under  the  command  of  a  Major  Johnson,  three  hundred 


296  NOTED  GUEEEILLAS,  OK 

strong.  These  soldiers,  on  the  watch  for  Anderson,  bad  been 
busy  in  scouting  expeditions,  and  had  come  down  as  near  Cen- 
tralia as  Sturgeon.  After  Anderson  had  done  all  the  devilment 
his  hands  could  find  to  do  in  Centralia,  and  had  retired  again  to 
the  Singleton  camp,  Major  Johnson  came  into  the  pillaged  town, 
swearing  all  kinds  of  frightful  and  fearful  things.  At  the  head 
of  his  column  a  black  flag  was  carried.  So  also  was  there  one 
at  the  head  of  Todd's  column.  In  Johnson's  ranks  the  stars 
and  stripes  for  this  day  had  been  forbidden ;  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Guerrillas  the  stars  and  bars  flew  fair  and  free,  as  if  to  the  des- 
peration of  the  sable  banner  there  had  been  an  intention  to  add 
the  gracefulness  and  abandon  of  legitimate  war. 

The  Union  citizens  of  Centralia,  knowing  only  Anderson  in 
the  transaction,  besought  Johnson  to  beware  of  him.  He  was 
no  match  for  Anderson.  It  was  useless  to  sacrifice  both  himself 
and  his  men.  Anderson  had  not  retreated  ;  he  was  in  ambush 
somewhere  about  the  prairie  ;  he  would  swoop  down  like  an  eagle  ; 
he  would  smite  and  spare  not.  Johnson  was  as  brave  as  the 
best  of  them,  but  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  Ho  had 
never  in  his  life  fought  Guerrillas — such  Guerrillas  as  were  now 
near  unto  him.  He  listened  patiently  to  the  warnings  that  were 
well  meant  and  he  put  away  firmly  the  hands  that  were  lifted  to 
stay  his  horse.  He  pointed  gleefully  to  his  black  flag,  and 
boasted  that  quarter  should  neither  be  given  nor  asked.  He 
had  come  to  carry  back  with  him  the  body  of  Bill  Anderson, 
and  that  body  he  would  have,  dead  or  alive.  Very  well,  said 
the  citizens  then, -go  and  get  it.  Fate,  however,  had  not  yet 
entirely  turned  away  its  face  from  the  Federal  officer.  As  he 
rode  out  from  the  town  at  the  head  of  his  column,  a  young 
Union  girl,  described  as  very  fair  and  beautiful,  rushed  up  to 
Major  Johnson  and  halted  him.  She  spoke  as  one  inspired. 
She  declared  that  a  presentiment  had  come  to  her,  and  that  if 
he  led  his  men  that  day  against  Bill  Anderson  she  knew  and 
felt  that  but  few  of  them  would  return  alive.  The  girl  almost 
knelt  in  the  dust  as  she  besought  the  leader.  Of  no  avail. 
Johnson's  blood  was  all  on  fire,  and  he  would  march  and  fight, 
no  matter  whether  death  waited  for  him  one  mile  off,  or  one 
hundred.  He  not  only  carried  a  black  flag  himself,  and  swore 
to  give  no  quarter,  but  he  declared  on  his  return  that  he  would 
devastate  the  country  and  leave  of  the  habitations  of  the  South- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER         297 

era  men,  not  one  stone  upon  another.  He  was  greatly  enraged 
towards  the  last.  He  cursed  the  people  as  "damned  secesh," 
and  swore  that  they  were  in  league  with  the  murderers  and  rob- 
bers. Extermination,  in  fact,  was  what  they  all  needed,  and  il 
fortune  favored  him  in  the  fight,  it  was  extermination  that  they 
should  all  have.  It  did  not  favor  him. 

Johnson  rode  east  of  south,  probably  three  miles.  The 
scouts  who  went  to  Singleton's  barn,  where  Anderson  camped, 
came  back  to  say  that  the  Guerrillas  had  been  there,  had  fed 
there,  had  rested  there,  and  had  gone  down  into  the  timber 
beyond  to  hide  themselves.  It  was  now  about  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  Back  from  the  barn,  a  long,  high  ridge  lifted 
itself  up  from  the  undulations  of  the  more  regular  country, 
and  broke  the  vision  southward.  Beyond  this  ridge,  a  wide, 
smooth  prairie  stretched  itself  out,  and  still  beyond  this 
prairie,  and  further  to  the  south,  was  the  timber  in  which  the 
scouts  said  Bill  Anderson  was  hiding  himself. 

As  Johnson  rode  towards  the  ridge,  still  distant  from  it  some 
mile  or  more,  ten  men  anticipated  him  by  coming  up  fair 
to  view,  and  in  skirmishing  order.  The  leader  of  this  little 
band,  Capt.  John  Thrailkill,  had  picked  for  the  occasion  David 
and  John  Poole,  Frank  and  Jesse  James,  Tuck  Hill,  Peyton 
Long,  Ben  Morrow,  James  Younger,  E.  P.  DeHart,  Ed  Green- 
wood and  Harrison  Trow.  Next  to  Thrailkill  rode  Jesse  James, 
and  next  to  Jesse,  Frank.  Johnson  had  need  to  beware  of 
what  might  be  before  him  in  the  unknown  when  such  giants  as 
these  began  to  show  themselves. 

The  Guerrillas  numbered,  all  told,  exactly  two  hundred  and 
sixty-two.  In  Anderson's  company  there  were  sixty-one  men, 
in  George  Todd's  forty-eight,  in  Poole' s  forty-nine,  in  Thomas 
Todd's  fifty-four,  and  in  Thrailkill's  fifty— two  hundred  and 
sixty-two  against  three  hundred. 

As  Thrailkill  went  forward  to  skirmish  with  the  advancing 
enemy,  Tcdd  came  out  of  the  timber  where  he  had  been  hiding, 
and  formed  a  line  of  battle  in  an  old  field  in  front  of  it.  Still 
further  to  the  front  a  sloping  hill,  half  a  mile  away,  arose 
between  Johnson  and  the  Guerrillas.  Todd  rode  to  the  crest  of 
this,  pushing  Thrailkill  well  forward  into  the  prairie  beyond, 
and  took  his  position  there.  When  he- lifted  his  hat  and  waved 
it  the  whole  force  was  to  move  rapidly  up.  Anderson  held  the 


298  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OE 

right,  George  Todd  joined  to  Anderson,  Poole  to  George  Todd, 
Thomas  Todd  to  Poole,  and  Thrailkill  to  Thomos  Todd — and 
thus  were  the  ranks  arra}7ed. 

The  ten  skirmishers  quickly  surmounted  the  hill  and  disap- 
peared. Todd,  as  a  carved  statue,  sat  his  horse  upon  its 
summit.  Johnson  moved  right  onward.  Some  shots  at  long 
range  were  fired,  and  some  bullets  from  the  muskets  of  the 
Federals  reached  to  and  beyond  the  ridge  where  Todd  watched, 
Peyton  Long  by  his  side.  From  a  column  of  fours  Johnson's 
men  galloped  at  once  into  line  of  battle,  right  in  front,  and 
marched  so,  pressing  up  well  and  calmly.  The  advanced  Guer- 
rillas opened  fire  briskly  at  last,  and  the  skirmishing  grew 
suddenly  hot.  Thrailkill,  however,  knew  his  business  too  well 
to  tarry  long  at  such  work,  and  fell  back  towards  the  ridge.  As 
this  movement  was  being  executed,  Johnson's  men  raised  a  shout 
and  dashed  forward  altogether  and  in  a  compact  mass,  order, 
formation,  ranks  all  gone.  This  looked  bad.  Such  sudden 
exultation  over  a  skirmish  wherein  none  were  killed  exhibited 
nervousness — such  a  spontaneous  giving  way  of  a  body,  that 
beyond  the  will  of  their  commander,  should  have  manifested 
neither  surprise  nor  delight — looked  ominous  for  discipline, 
and  for  the  defence  that  needed  to  be  the  defence  of  iron  men 
if  it  wrought  any  alive  out  from  the  unknown. 

Titrailkill  formed  again  when  he  reached  Todd's  line  of  battle, 
and  Johnson  rearranged  his  ranks  and  went  towards  the  slope 
at  a  brisk  walk.  Some  upon  the  right  broke  into  a  trot,  but 
he  halted  them,  cursed  them,  and  bade  them  look  better  to  their 
line.  Up  to  the  hill's  crest,  however,  a  column  of  men  suddenly 
rode  into  view,  halted,  dismounted,  and  seemed  to  be  busy  or 
confused  about  something.  Inexperienced,  Johnson  is  declared 
to  hive  said  to  his  adjutant:  "They  will  fight  on  foot — what 
does  that  mean?"  It  meant  that  the  men  were  tightening  their 
saddle-girths,  putting  fresh  caps  on  their  revolvers,  looking  well 
to  bridle  reins  and  bridle  bits,  and  preparing  for  a  charge  that 
would  have  about  it  the  fury  of  the  whirlwind.  By  and  by 
the  Guerrillas  were  mounted  again.  From  a  column  they  trans- 
formed themselves  into  a  line  two  deep,  and  with  a  double 
interval  between  all  the  files.  At  a  slow  walk  they  moved  over 
the  crest  towards  Major  Johnson,  now  advancing  at  a  walk  that 
was  oxisker. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  299 

Perhaps  it  was  now  five  o'clock.  The  September  sun  was 
low  in  the  west,  not  red  nor  angry,  but  an  Indian  Summer  sun, 
full  yet  of  generous  warmth  and  grateful  beaming.  The  crisp 
grass  crinkled  under  foot.  From  afar  the  murmur  of  lapsing 
streams  came  softly  through  the  hushed  air,  and  now  and  then 
the  notes  of  a  bird  not  musical,  but  far  apart.  An  interval  of 
five  hundred  yards  separated  the  two  lines.  Not  a  shot  had 
been  fired.  Todd  showed  a  naked  front,  bare  of  skirmishers 
and  stripped  for  the  fight  that  he  knew  would  be  murderous  to 
the  Federals.  And  why  should  they  not  stand?  The  black  flag 
waved  alike  over  each,  and  from  the  lips  of  the  leaders  of  each 
there  had  been  all  the  day  only  threats  of  extermination  and 
death. 

Johnson  halted  his  men  and  rode  along  his  front  speaking  a 
few  calm  and  collected  words.  They  could  not  be  heard  in 
Todd's  ranks,  but  they  might  have  been  divined.  Most 
battle  speeches  are  the  same.  They  abound  fti  good  advice. 
They  are  generally  epigrammatic,  and  full  of  sentences  like 
these:  "Aim  low,"  "keep  coo], "  "fire  when  you  get  loaded," 
"let  the  wounded  lie  till  the  struggle  is  over."  But  could  it  be 
possible  that  Johnson  meant  to  receive  the  charge  of  the  Guer- 
rillas at  a  halt !  What  cavalry  books  had  he  read  ?  Who  had 
taught  him  such  ruinous  and  suicidal  tactics?  And  yet  mon- 
strous as  the  resolution  was  in  a  military  sense,  it  had  actually 
been  taken,  and  Johnson  called  out  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
from  opposing  force  to  opposing  force :  "Come  on,  we  are  ready 
for  the  fight!" 

The  challenge  was  accepted.  The  Guerrillas  gathered  them- 
selves up  altogether  as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse,  and  took  the 
bridle-reins  between  their  teeth.  In  the  hands  of  each  man 
there  was  a  deadly  revolver.  There  were  carbines  also,  and  yet 
they  never  had  been  unslung.  The  sun  was  not  high,  and  there 
was  great  need  to  finish  quickly  whatever  had  need  to  be  begun. 
Riding  the  best  and  fastest  horses  in  Missouri,  George  Shep- 
herd, Oil  Shepherd,  Frank  Shepherd,  Frank  Gregg,  Morrow, 
Trow,  McGuire,  Allen  Farmer,  Hence  and  Lafe  Privin,  James 
Younger,  Press  Webb,  Babe  Hudspeth,  Dick  Burnes,  Ambrose 
and  Thomas  Maxwell,  Richard  Kinney,  Si  and  Ike  Flannery, 
Jesse  and  Frank  James,  David  Poole,  John  Poole,  Ed  Green- 
wood, Al  Scott,  Frank  Gray,  George  Maddox,  Dick  Maddox,  De 


300  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,   OR 

Hart,  Jeff  Emery,  Bill  Anderson,  Tuck  Hill,  James  Cummings, 
John  Rupe,  Silas  King,  Jas.  Corum,  Moses  Hnffaker,  Ben  Broom- 
field,  Peyton  Long,  Jack  Southerland,  Wm.  Reynolds,  Wra.  and 
Chas.  Stewart,  Bud  Pence,  Nat  Tigue,  Gooly  Robertson,  Hiram 
Guess,  Buster  Parr,  William  Gaw,  Chat  Rennick,  Henry  Porter, 
Arch  and  Henry  Clements,  Jesse  Hamlet,  John  Thrailkill,  Si 
Gordon,  George  Todd,  Thomas  Todd,  William  and  Hugh 
Archie,  Plunk  Murray,  Ling  Litten,  Joshua  Esters,  Sam  Wade, 
Creth  Creek,  Theo.  Castle,  John  Chatman,  and  three  score  more 
of  other  unnamed  heroes  struck  first  the  Federal  ranks  as  if  the 
rush  was  a  rush  of  tigers.  Jesse  James,  riding  a  splendid  race 
mare,  led  by  half  a  length,  then  Arch  Clements,  then  Frank 
James,  then  Peyton  Long,  and  then  Oil  Shepherd.  There  was 
neither  trot  nor  gallop;  the  Guerrillas  simply  dashed  from  a 
walk  into  a  full  run.  The  attack  was  a  hurricane.  Johnson's 
command  fired  one  volley  and  not  a  gun  thereafter.  It  scarcely 
stood  until  the  interval  of  five  hundred  yards  was  passed  over. 
Johnson  cried  out  to  his  men  to  fight  to  the  death,  but  they  did 
not  wait  even  to  hear  him  through.  Some  broke  ranks  as  soon 
as  they  had  fired,  and  fled.  Others  were  attempting  to  reload 
their  muskets  when  the  Guerrillas,  firing  right  and  left,  hurled 
themselves  upon  them.  Johnson  fell  among  the  first.  Mounted 
us  described,  Jesse  James  singled  out  the  leader  of  the  Federals. 
He  did  not  know  him  then.  No  words  were  spoken  between  the 
two.  When  James  had  reached  to  within  five  feet  of  Johnson's 
position,  he  put  out  a  pistol  suddenly  and  sent  a  bullet  through 
his  brain.  Johnson  threw  out  his  hands  as  if  trying  to  reach 
something  above  his  head  and  pitched  forward  heavily,  a  corpse. 
There  was  no  quarter.  Many  begged  for  mercy  on  their  knees. 
The  Guerrillas  heeded  the  prayer  as  a  wolf  might  the  bleating 
of  a  lamb.  The  wild  rout  broke  away  towards  Sturgeon,  the 
implacable  pursuit,  vengeful  as  hate,  thundering  in  the  rear. 
Death  did  its  work  in  twos,  in  threes,  in  squads  —  singly. 
Beyond  the  first  volley  not  a  single  Guerrilla  was  hurt,  but  in 
this  volley  Frank  Shepherd,  Hank  Williams,  and  young  Peyton 
were  killed,  and  Richard  Kinney  mortally  wounded.  Thomas 
Maxwell  and  Harrison  Carter  were  also  slightly  wounded  by  the 
same  volley,  and  two  horses  killed — one  under  Dave  Poole  and 
one  under  Chat  Rennick.  Shepherd,  a  giant  in  size  and  as 
brave  as  the  best  in  a  command  where  all  were  brave,  had 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  301 

fought  the  good  fight  and  died  in  the  harness.  Hank  Williams, 
only  a  short  time  before,  had  deserted  from  the  Federals  and 
joined  Poole,  giving  rare  evidences,  in  his  brief  Guerrilla  service, 
of  great  enterprise  and  consummate  daring.  Peyton  was  but  a 
beardless  boy  from  Howard  county,  who  in  his  first  battle  after 
becoming  a  Guerrilla  was  shot  dead. 

Probably  sixty  of  Johnson's  command  gained  their  horses 
before  the  fierce  wave  of  the  charge  broke  over  them,  and  these 
were  pursued  by  five  Guerrillas — by  Jesse  James,  Frank  James, 
Peyton  Long,  Arch  Clements  and  Oil  Shepherd — for  six  miles 
at  the  dead  run.  Of  the  sixty,  fifty-two  were  killed  on  the  road 
from  Centralia  to  Sturgeon.  Todd  drew  up  his  command  and 
watched  the  chase  go  on.  For  three  miles  nothing  obstructed 
the  vision.  Side  by  side  over  the  level  prairie  the  five  stretched 
away  like  the  wind,  gaining  step  by  step  and  bound  by  bound, 
upon  the  rearmost  riders.  Then  little  puffs  of  smoke  arose. 
No  sounds  could  be  heard,  but  dashing  ahead  from  the  white 
spurts  terrified  steeds  ran  riderless.  Night  and  Sturgeon  ended 
the  killing.  Five  men  had  shot  down  fifty-two.  Arch  Clem- 
ents, in  the  apportionment  made  afterwards,  had  credited  to 
him  fourteen,  OH  Shepherd  ten,  Peyton  Long  nine,  Frank  James 
eight,  and  Jesse  James,  besides  killing  Major  Johnson  and 
others  in  the  charge  upon  the  dismounted  troopers,  killed  in  the 
chase  an  additional  eight.  Johnson's  loss  was  two  hundred  and 
eighty-two,  or  out  of  three  hundred  only  eighteen  escaped. 
History  has  chosen  to  call  the  ferocious  killing  at  Centralia  a 
butchery.  In  civil  war  encounters  are  not  called  butcheries 
where  the  combatants  are  man  to  man  and  where  over  either 
rank  there  waves  a  black  flag.  Johnson's  overthrow,  probably, 
was  a  decree  of  fate.  He  rushed  upon  it  as  if  impelled  by  a 
power  stronger  than  himself.  He  did  not  know  how  to  com- 
mand, and  his  men  did  not  know  how  to  fight.  He  had,  by  the 
sheer  force  of  circumstances,  been  brought  face  to  face  with  two 
hundred  and  sixty-two  of  the  most  terrible  revolver  fighters  the 
American  war  or  any  other  war  ever  produced,  and  he  deliber- 
ately tied  his  hands  by  the  act  of  dismounting,  and  stood  in  the 
shambles  until  he  was  shot  down.  Abject  and  pitiful  cowardice 
matched  itself  against  reckless  and  profligate  desperation,  and 
the  end  could  only  be  just  what  the  end  was.  The  Guerrillas 
did  unto  the  militia  just  exactly  what  the  militia  would  have 


302  NOTED  GUEBRILLAS,  OH 

done  unto  them  if  fate  had  reversed  its  decision  and  given  to 
Johnson  what  it  permitted  to  Todd. 

Before  either  Quantrell,  Todd,  Anderson  or  Poole  began  to 
do  bloody  work  in  Howard  or  any  of  its  contiguous  counties, 
other  desperate  men  had  been  busy  with  the  enemy.  Capt. 
James  Cason,  a  farmer  Guerrilla,  had  also  been  operating  in 
Howard  county  at  various  times  and  brilliantly.  He  was  an 
intrepid  man,  full  of  enthusiasm  and  enterprise.  Whenever  the 
enemy  came  upon  him  they  had  to  fight  him.  Unostentatious, 
clear-headed,  vigilant,  and  thoroughly  in  earnest,  he  always  got 
close  enough  before  he  fired  to  hurt  somebody.  His  first 
encounter  was  with  Major  Hunt,  of  Merrill's  Horse,  in  the 
Boonslick  hills,  near  Lisbon,  on  the  Missouri  river.  Hunt  was 
on  a  horse-pressing  expedition  of  a  bright  summer  day.  Cason 
had  with  him  H.  A.  Ballew,  John  A.  Cason,  John  G.  Ballew, 
John  M.  Taylor,  old  Tom  Childres  and  his  son  young  Tom 
Childres,  Lt.  B.  H.  Shipp,  E.  P.  De  Hart,  and  Calvin  Sartain. 
These  men  formed  an  ambuscade,  fired  five  volleys  into  Hunt's 
detachment,  killing  nine,  wounding  twenty-two  and  scattering 
the  balance  of  the  sixty  in  every  direction.  De  Hart  was 
almost  a  boy — fair-faced,  courageous,  and  giving  great  promise 
even  in  this  his  first  skirmish  of  the  Guerrilla  stuff  that  was 
in  him. 

Capt.  Cason 's  second  fight  was  with  eight  hundred  Federals 
having  two  pieces  of  artillery.  This  column  he  ambushed  for 
nearly  an  entire  day,  killing  thirty-five  and  wounding  fifty-two. 
He  had  with  him  only  John  A.  Cason,  Calvin  Sartain — who  was 
captured  and  shot  afterwards — Green  Wisdom,  Tom  Childres, 
Jr.,  Lt.  Ben  Shipp,  Wat  Shiflett,  Ab  and  James  Bobett,  E.  P. 
De  Hart,  John  and  Martin  Ballew,  Ed  and  Crat  Wilson,  John 
M.  Taylor,  John  Wills,  and  Harrison  Burton.  Very  soon  after 
this  summer  day's  fight  against  enormous  odds,  Capt.  Cason 
went  South,  taking  with  him  the  most  of  his  men. 

On  the  seventeenth  of  August,  1861,  Capt.  Cason  had  word 
brought  to  him  that  two  steamboats  loaded  with  troops  were 
coming  down  the  river,  en  route  to  St.  Louis.  An  ambuscade 
was  immediately  formed  on  the  Howard  county  side  and  almost 
immediately  opposite  Saline  City.  Here  the  current  of  the  river 
sweeps  very  near  to  the  shore,  which  would  of  necessity  bring 
them  within  perfect  rifle  range  of  the  concealed  Guerrillas. 


WABFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  303 

Unsuspicious  of  danger  and  crowded  with  a  human  freight  that 
seemed  too  confiding  to  be  taken  so  unawares  and  so  murder- 
ously, the  boats — the  White  Cloud  and  the  McDowell — swept 
swiftly  along.  A  sudden  flame  leaped  out  from  the  bushes  a* 
though  some  hidden  fire  was  there,  and  then  on  the  crowded 
decks  there  were  terror,  confusion,  bleeding  men  and  dead  men. 
For  nearly  an  hour  Cason  fought  the  boats  thus,  making  of 
every  embankment  an  earthwork,  and  of  every  tree  a  fortress. 
Finally  a  landing  was  effected  and  two  pieces  of  cannon  hurried 
ashore  and  used  for  shelling  the  timber  which  concealed  the 
Guerrillas.  Cason  held  on.  As  the  infantry  advanced,  he  fell 
back ;  as  the  infantry  retired,  he  advanced.  They  could  not 
shake  loose  his  grip.  Night  alone  ended  the  savage  duel,  the 
Federal  loss  being  sixty-two  killed  and  nearly  a  hundred 
wounded. 

Other  Guerrillas  also  had  their  way  in  this  portion  of  Missouri 
before  Quantrell,  Todd,  and  Anderson  began  to  operate  there — 
notably  the  Hoitzclaw  family.  Capt.  Clifton  Holtzclaw  led  the 
first  Guerrillas  Howard  county  produced.  Capt.  William 
Holtzclaw  raised  one  of  the  first  companies  that  was  raised  for 
Price's  army  in  the  State.  His  brother  Clifton  was  a  lieutenant 
in  the  company,  and  his  other  brothers,  James,  Benjamin  and 
John  were  privates.  William  was  killed  at  Corinth,  John 
and  Benjamin  at  Vicksburg,  while  James  and  Clifton  survived 
the  war.  Here  were  five  brothers  who  were  brave  alike,  who 
fought  side  by  side,  who  were  renowned  for  personal  prowess 
and  personal  courage,  and  who  sacrificed  everything  they  pos- 
sessed for  the  cause  and  the  Confederacy.  A  tragic  circum- 
stance called  Capt.  Clifton  Holtzclaw  back  to  Missouri.  His 
aged  father  and  mother,  together  with  three  sisters,  had  been 
robbed  of  everything  they  possessed,  horses,  household  effects, 
clothing,  even  bread.  Yet  the  old  patriarch's  spirit  remained 
all  unsubdued  and  undaunted.  As  far  advanced  as  he  was  in 
life,  and  as  little  fitted  for  warlike  operations,  he  nevertheless 
secreted  several  kegs  of  powder  against  a  day  when  they  might 
be  worth  their  weight  in  gold.  Some  of  this  powder  becoming 
damp,  old  Mr.  Holtzclaw  attempted  to  dry  it  before  a  fire. 
There  was  a  terrible  explosion,  one  sister  was  killed  and  the  two 
others  dreadfully  burnt.  To  care  for  and  protect  these,  and  his 
two  aged  parents,  Capt.  Cliff  Holtzclaw  hurried  home  after  the 


304  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

Corinth  battle,  where  a  gallant  brother  had  been  killed,  and 
sought  to  be  at  peace  and  to  rest  in  quiet.  Such  things  in  those 
savage  days  were  impossible  things.  Several  efforts  were  made 
to  capture  and  kill  him.  Four  or  five  scouting  parties  went  to 
his  house,  insulted  his  parents,  abused  his  sisters,  and  made  all 
sorts  and  kinds  of  terrible  threats  against  his  own  life.  In  self- 
defense  he  organized  speedily  a  splendid  company  and  fought  a 
desperate  Guerrilla  fight  all  through  the  summer  of  1863  and 
1864.  But  did  he  not  have  terrible  provocation?  In  the  sum- 
mer of  1863,  Lieutenant  Jo  Strett  of  Guitar's  regiment,  a  cruel 
militia  officer  who  tied  Southern  men  to  trees  and  sabred  or  shot 
them,  went  to  Capt.  Holtzclaw's  house,  took  the  aged  father 
from  the  arms  of  his  aged  wife  and  remorselessly  killed  him. 
The  son  avenged  him.  He  fought  thereafter  as  some  sav- 
age wild  beast.  He  killed  b}^  day  and  by  night.  He 
never  took  a  prisoner.  As  desperate  as  Anderson,  as  unforgiv- 
ing as  Todd,  as  untiring  as  Taylor  or  Jesse  James,  the  timber 
sent  him  forth  as  a  scourge  and  received  him  back  again  as 
though  he  was  a  part  of  its  solitude. 

In  the  spring  of  1863,  Col.  S.  D.  Jackman  also  came  into 
Howard  county  from  the  Confederate  army  on  a  recruiting 
expedition,  and  rode  about  as  he  pleased,  and  as  the  bold,  cool, 
dauntless  man  he  was.  Indignant,  the  Federals  sent  out  a 
detachment  under  Capt.  Samuel  Steinmetz,  from  Glasgow,  to 
look  after  Jackman.  Steinmetz  found  him  near  New  Franidin, 
opposite  Boonville.  With  Jackman  was  Major  Rucker,  Lieut. 
Drury  Pulliam,  Polk  Witt,  E.  P.  Do.  Hart  and  ten  other  choice 
spirits.  The  Guerrillas  took  up  a  strong  position  in  a  ravine, 
poured  a  single  deadly  fire  into  Steinmetz's  ranks,  and  scattered 
them  in  every  direction,  no  single  Federal  halting  in  his  race 
until  he  reached  Fayette.  Major  Rives  Leonard,  of  Guitar's 
regiment,  aroused  at  the  signal  failure  of  Steinmetz  to  break  up 
Jackman 's  recruiting  camp,  hurried  out  himself  at  the  head  of 
sixty  picked  troopers.  A  bloody  combat  ensued — brief, 
savage,  exterminating.  Jackman  and  Leonard  met  face  to  face 
and  fought  a  single-handed  fight.  Leonard  was  hit  once  in  the 
head  and  twice  in  the  side,  and  Jackman  was  wounded  severely 
in  the  leg.  When  Leonard  fell  his  men  shamefully  abandoned 
him  and  dashed  away,  as  Steinmetz's  men  had  done,  without 
drawing  rein,  until  they  too  reached  Fayette,  panic-stricken 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  305 

and  exhausted.  Leonard  and  two  of  his  wounded  soldiers,  fell 
alive  into  Jackman's  hands,  who  treated  them  with  marked 
consideration,  releasing  them  finally,  and  permitting  them  to 
be  carried  to  their  homes.  Several  severe  skirmishes  followed 
this  bloody  little  fight,  in  all  of  which  Jackman  was  victorious, 
and  for  several  weeks  he  was  left  comparatively  undisturbed 
until  July.  At  this  time  a  very  plausible  man  came  to 
Jackman's  camp  who  sought  in  every  manner  to  gain  his  confi- 
dence and  to  ingratiate  himself  in  his  good  opinions. 
Frequently  he  solicited  Jackman  to  ride  with  him,  and  once  he 
insisted  that  Jackman  should  go  to  a  certain  designated  spot 
where  he  said  a  lot  of  recruits  were  waiting  to  join  him.  This 
last  request  aroused  Jackman's  suspicions.  He  agreed,  how- 
ever, to  go,  but  before  setting  out  sent  ahead  ten  trusty  Guer- 
rillas especially  charged  to  develop  the  ambush  if  ambush  there 
was.  It  was  soon  done.  Fifteen  ambushed  Federals  were  found 
completely  hidden  in  the  brush  and  awaiting  anxiously  the 
arrival  of  the  intended  victim.  Eight  of  these  were  killed  and 
the  balance  routed.  As  the  sun  set  that  afternoon  its  last 
beams  fell  upon  the  pallid  face  and  the  destorted  features  of  a 
man  swinging  to  a  huge  oak  with  a  rope  about  his  neck.  The 
spy's  death  had  been  a  dog's  death. 

Jackman  now  began  to  get  ready  to  return  again  to  the  South 
with  something  like  half  a  regiment  of  recruits — splendid  young 
Missourians,  eager  for  service  and  anxious  to  put  on  the  gray. 
Before  he  left,  however,  he  did  a  daring  deed.  Gen.  Thomas 
J.  Bartholow  was  a  soldier  of  scars  and  honors.  He  had  made 
a  name  in  Mexico  first,  and  latter  a  name  in  Missouri.  He  was 
a  brave,  generous,  dashing,  vigorous  man,  who  fought  well, 
who  was  humane,  enterprising,  fond  of  a  battle,  and  a  rough 
rider  on  a  war-path.  He  commanded  the  military  district  in 
which  Glasgow  was  located,  and  had  a  residence  on  an  outskirt 
of  the  town.  At  night  he  generally  slept  there.  Duly  informed 
in  regard  to  the  General's  habits,  Jackman  resolved  to  capture 
him.  He  chose  for  the  adventure  Major  Rucker,  Drury  Pulliain, 
Polk  Witt,  E.  P.  De  Hart,  Ben  Shipp,  and  four  other  stalwart 
Guerrillas,  who  were  cool  and  who  were  not  afraid  to  die.  Gen. 
John  B.  Clark,  Jr.,  now  a  member  of  Congress  from  Missouri, 
was  at  home  on  a  leave  of  absence  and  accompanied  Jackman. 
One  hundred  and  fifty  Federals  held  Glasgow,  picqueting  all  the 
20 


306  NOTED  GUERKILLAS  OK, 

roads  and  exercising  generally  a  vigilant  watch.  Past  midnight 
— probably  between  one  and  two  o'clock  in  the  morning— Col. 
Jackman,  avoiding  the  picquets  on  the  Glasgow  and  Boonville 
road,  entered  the  city.  Ben  Shipp  was  the  guide  ;  he  knew  every 
foot  of  the  ground  to  be  travelled  over,  every  rough  or  dangerous 
place.  He  also  knew  the  best  way  to  Gen.  Bartholow's  house. 
When  this  was  reached  without  an  accident  or  an  encounter, 
Jackman  secreted  his  men  and  sent  Major  Rucker  to  the  front 
door,  who  rang  the  bell  coolly  and  calmly.  Gen.  Bartholow 
answered  it  in  person,  a  revolver  in  his  hand  and  a  look  of 
questioning  on  his  resolute  face.  Seeing  only  a  single  man 
there,  he  bade  him  enter.  Rucker  went  quietly  into  the  house, 
and  as  the  two  sat  face  to  face,  the  Confederate  slowly  stated 
his  business.  "I  am  from  Macon  City,  General,"  the  would-be 
courier  declared,  "and  I  have  a  dispatch  for  you."  And  he 
had,  written  by  Jackman  himself,  stating  that  the  Guerrillas 
were  between  Roanoke  and  Huntsville,  and  that  the  devil  was 
to  pay.  Bartholow  read  it  calmly,  folded  it  up,  and  laid  it 
aside,  saying  bursquely  as  he  did  so,  "There  is  no  answer." 
Rucker  rose  to  go,  and  Bartholow  followed  him  to  the  front 
door  to  see  him  depart.  As  he  stepped  outside  of  it  he  was 
laid  hold  of  by  Rucker,  Jackman,  Pulliam,  and  Shipp,  who  had 
gained  the  house  unperceived  while  Rucker  was  conferring  with 
the  General,  and  completely  mastered  him.  Pistols  were 
against  every  portion  of  his  body,  while  in  whispers  the  men 
bade  him  keep  quiet  for  his  life.  Surprised,  but  in  no  manner 
intimidated,  Gen.  Bartholow's  wonderful  nerve  remained  unruf- 
fled. He  saw  the  hopeless  nature  of  a  struggle,  and  he  sub- 
mitted without  a  struggle.  Born  soldier  and  educated  com- 
mander, he  saw  in  the  episode  only  one  phase  in  a  war  that  had 
a  thousand  phases,  and  he  faced  fortune  with  the  same  equa- 
nimity that  he  would  have  faced  a  line  of  battle.  Skirting  the 
the  town  rapidly  and  regaining  the  horses  unperceived,  Jackman 
furnished  an  excellent  steed  for  Bartholow  to  ride  and  kept  by 
his  side  himself  all  through  the  night,  putting  by  daylight  a 
distance  of  twenty  miles  between  Glasgow  and  his  halting  place 
in  the  Boonslick  hills.  Preceding  the  capture,  Gen.  Bartholow 
had  issued  certain  proclamations  containing  rewards  for 
Jackman's  arrest  or  death,  but  these  were  promised  to  be  with- 
drawn when  brought  to  his  attention  by  Jackman,  and  when  on 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  307 

the  following  day  Bartholow  was  released,  he  scrupulously  kept 
his  word.  Meanwhile  the  story  of  their  General's  capture  had 
aroused  the  soldiers  of  Glasglow  as  some  unlocked  for  natural 
convulsion  might.  A  great  surprise  came  at  first,  and  then  a 
great  fury.  Capt.  John  Tillman,  more  of  a  cut- throat  than  a 
soldier,  swore  he  would  kill  every  Southern  sympathizer  in  town 
if  Gen.  Bartholow  did  not  return  inside  of  twenty-four  hours. 
Five  or  six  of  these  kind  of  people  were  seized  and  held  ready 
for  the  sacrifice.  Every  point  of  egress  was  carefully  guarded. 
Tillman  himself,  at  the  head  of  a  strong  column,  sallied  forth 
to  scour  the  country,  but  returned  late  in  the  day  and  unsuc- 
cessful only  to  find  Gen.  Bartholow  back  at  his  headquarters, 
safe,  and  full  of  a  jolly  good  humor.  Jackman  had  treated 
him  as  one  gallant  soldier  always  treats  another,  and  Bartholow 
on  his  return  after  he  had  narrated  the  episode  fully,  and  laughed 
over  it  until  he  was  tired — restored  peace  to  the  distracted  city 
of  Glasgow,  released  the  victims  marked  upon  the  brow  by 
Tillman,  and  assured  the  citizens  of  every  political  faith  that 
they  should  neither  be  persecuted  nor  murdered. 

Guerrilla  fighting  began  again  in  good  earnest  in  many  direc- 
tions. Capt.  William  Jackson,  a  son  of  Governor  C.  F.  Jackson, 
met  this  same  Capt.  John  Tillman  in  Richland  bottom,  opposite 
Saline  City,  and  whipped  him  badly.  Jackson  had  five  men  and 
Tillman  sixteen.  When  the  fight  was  done,  Jackson  had  four 
men  and  Tillman  eight.  The  balance  might  have  been  found 
among  the  dead. 

In,  1864,  a  Kansas  Red  Leg  Captain  named  Truman,  passed 
through  Howard  like  a  scourge,  cutting,  slashing,  hanging  and 
shooting.  In  Boonslick  township  he  killed  Sashel  Carson, 
Oliver  Rose,  Tazeweli  Jones,  John  Stepp,  John  T.  Marshall, 
and  John  Cooper,  all  worthy  and  peaceful  citizens.  Others  were 
killed  in  various  parts  of  the  county,  and  the  Guerrillas  grew  in 
proportion  as  the  people  were  preyed  upon. 

As  already  stated,  QuantrelFs  object  in  going  to  Howard 
county  was  not  so  much  to  fight  as  to  rest,  not  so  much  to  hide 
himself  as  to  be  at  peace.  He  was  sick,  wounded,  barely  able 
to  ride,  and  worn  from  long  pain  and  exposure.  He  arrived 
about  the  10th  of  July,  1864,  and  spent  the  first  few  weeks  with 
his  old  refugee  friends  from  Jackson  county,  Evan  Hall,  Reuben 
Harris,  and  Samuel  Sanders.  De  Hart  and  several  other  How- 


308  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

ard  county  Guerrillas  joined  him.  When  Anderson  began  to 
operate  in  the  county,  Quantrell  sent  to  find  him  Little,  Barker, 
Thomas  Harris,  John  McCorkle,  Logan  Tooley,  and  E.  P.  De 
Hart,  who,,  after  several  severe  skirmishes  and  no  little  stubborn 
fighting,  found  him  near  Boonesboro,  with  nineteen  men. 
George  Todd  was  still  further  away  in  the  Perche  hills  of  Boone 
county. 

Anderson  had  already  been  busy  with  the  enemy.  Encoun- 
tering Jackrnan's  old  antagonist,  Major  Leonard,  at  the  head  of 
two  hundred  and  eighty  men,  he  fought  him  a  bushwhacking 
fight  for  several  hours,  killing  thirteen  of  his  command  and 
wounding  eleven. 

Captain  William  Stuart,  with  seven  men  and  about  the  same 
time,  encountered  a  detachment  of  the  17th  Illinois,  near 
Boonesboro,  numbering  eighty.  Stuart  wa  -  hunting  for  Anderson, 
but  he  found  these  Illinois  people  traveling  briskly  along  from 
Glasgow  towards  Boonville.  The  fight  was  near  Squire  Kivett's, 
the  Guerrillas  beginning  with  a  charge,  continuing  with  a  charge 
and  ending  with  a  charge.  The  17th  fought  badly,  and 
finally  ran  away  without  sufficient  pressure.  Stuart  was 
wounded  severely  in  the  left  wrist,  but  Squire  Kivett  dressed 
his  wound,  and  he  rode  forward  with  his  arm  in  a  sling.  Of  a 
race  that  needed  to  be  exterminated  to  be  subdued,  what  mat- 
tered a  pin  prick  more  or  less,  or  a  bullet  or  two  here  and  there 
that  reached  no  vital  spot?  At  Allen,  Anderson  fought  again, 
and  won,  killing  twenty-two  militiamen  and  wounding  as  many 
more.  After  the  fight  at  Allen,  Capt.  James  Jackson  made  a 
dash  at  Jacksonville,  twelve  miles  below  Macon  City,  on  the 
North  Missouri  railroad,  and  charged  the  depot  on  horseback 
and  furiously.  He  killed  men  on  the  platform ;  he  killed  them 
in  box  cars ;  he  killed  them  on  the  right  hand  and  the  left, 
but  the  eighty  militia  in  the  depot  building  proper  he  could  not 
get  out.  Among  those  who  distinguished  themselves  in  this 
desperate  little  fight  with  Jackson  were  Lieutenant  Hines,  George 
Heberling,  Scott  Hackley,  Robert  Cravens,  and  William  and 
Charles  Landrum.  Charles  Landrum  was  shot  square  through 
the  breast,  but  he  would  not  die.  He  rode  with  his  column  as 
it  fell  back,  and  rode  a  dozen  and  more  miles  to  a  safe  hiding 
place  before  he  would  dismount  or  have  his  wound  dressed. 
Not  very  long  afterwards  William  Landrum,  a  splendid  soldierr 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BORDER  309 

and  a  cool,  desperate  fighter,  was  killed  leading  a  hopeless 
charge.  Robert  Cravens  was  killed  at  the  Fayette  fight,  superb 
in  the  recklessness  of  a  daring  which  astonished  even  his  daring 
comrades. 

But  not  all  the  killing  was  on  one  side.  One  day  Anderson 
lost  nine  of  his  best  men.  At  the  house  of  a  widow  lady  named 
Turner,  six  were  surrounded  and  shot.  They  fought  to  the  death, 
but  they  died.  Six  more  at  the  house  of  Capt.  Sebree  were  also 
surrounded,  three  of  whom  were  killed.  Three  escaped, 
Hamp.  Watts,  a  fifteen  year  old  boy  from  Fayette,  Anderson 
Baby  and  Joe  Holt.  They  cut  their  way  out  from  the  environ- 
ment, shooting  right  and  left.  Leonard's  troops  did  the  killing 
at  these  two  houses. 

Little,  to  get  cured  of  the  severe  wound  received  at  Fayette, 
was  carried  to  the  Boonslick  hills  and  hidden  securely  away. 
Devoted  men  and  women  could  be  found  everywhere  to  succor 
and  shield  the  wounded  or  unfortunate  Guerrillas.  For  patri- 
otic devotion  and  unremitting  care,  none  surpassed  Mrs. 
William  Wills,  Mrs.  Charles  Scripture,  Mr.  Ivin  Hall,  Reuben 
Harris,  old  Billy  Grady  and  old  Major  James  Simms.  Two 
prominent  physicians,  as  brave  as  they  were  patriotic,  also 
deserve  especial  mention — J.  W.  Hawkins,  of  Boonesboro,  and 
Thomas  Staples,  of  Saline.  These  men  killed  in  battle  and 
cured  in  hospitals.  They  were  soldiers  and  they  were  Samar- 
itans. They  ennobled  their  profession  twice— once  by  their 
heroism  and  once  by  their  devotion.  No  danger  deterred 
them,  no  difficulties  baffled  them,  no  proscription  caused  them 
to  relax  their  efforts,  no  adverse  circumstances  made  them  neg- 
ligent— they  were  noble  men  and  they  were  Missourians. 

Once  Anderson  entered  Glasgow  and  took  Col.  B.  W.  Lewis 
from  his  residence,  intending  no  doubt  to  kill  him.  Indeed  he 
had  sworn  some  time  before  to  kill  him  if  he  ever  laid  hands 
upon  him.  Mrs.  James  S.  Thompson  and  another  lady,  both 
extremely  Southern,  saved  Col.  Lewis  and  rescued  him  from  the 
grasp  of  this  desperate  Guerrilla. 

While  Quantrell  remained  in  Howard  county  after  the  Cen- 
tralia  fight,  waiting  for  Little's  wounds  to  heal,  he  encountered 
and  killed  two  Federal  soldiers,  a  Capt.  Kimsey  and  a  Robert 
Montgomery.  These  two  men  were  out  on  a  little  pillaging 
expedition.  They  had  robbed  several  citizens  of  money,  and 


310  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

had  behaved  scandalously  at  the  house  of  Mr.  John  L.  De  Hart. 
Quantrell,  in  company  with  one  of  his  men,  Thomas  Harris, 
met  these  Jayhawkers  and  ordered  them  to  surrender.  They 
began  to  draw  their  pistols,  when  as  instantaneous  as  the  light- 
ning's flash,  the  skilled  Guerrilla  shot  them  both  dead  from 
their  saddles.  The  evening  of  the  same  day  he  killed  another 
Federal  by  the  name  of  John  West,  at  Lisbon.  Not  long  after 
he  had  killed  West  some  Putnam  county  militia  came  into 
Glasgow,  stealing,  shooting  and  burning.  Lisbon  was  con- 
sumed. Capt.  James  Cason's  house  was  given  to  the  torch. 
Quantrell  was  encountered  and  driven  furiously  into  his  camp, 
having  barely  time  to  take  James  Little  up  behind  him  and  fall 
back  behind  John  Barker  and  five  others  of  his  old  men,  who 
ran  and  fought  and  held  their  own  for  fourteen  miles. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AFTER    CENTRALIA. 

FROM  the  battle-field  about  Centralia,  the  Guerrillas  moved 
into  Callaway  county.  There  Richard  Kinney  died. 
Trained  first  by  Shelby  and  later  by  Todd,  he  went  about  as 
some  mediaeval  knight,  fighting  single-handed  and  against 
desperate  odds.  He  and  Frank  James  were  comrades  in  arms 
and  inseparable.  If  one  charged  the  head  of  a  pursuing  column, 
the  other  was  by  his  side.  If  one  fell  in  the  desperate  press  of  a 
rush  or  a  raeZee,  the  other  stood  over  him  in  rescue  or  fought 
against  any  numbers  while  he  found  another  horse.  Kinney, 
although  one  of  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  had  the  modesty  of  a 
women.  He  never  boasted.  Indeed,  he  did  not  even  talk 
much.  After  a  combat  in  which  his  prowess  or  his  intrepidity 
had  been  conspicuous,  he  listened  delightedly  to  others  who 
recited,  to  others  who  told  of  the  day.  Such  was  his  skill  with 
a  revolver  that  when  an  exceedingly  difficult  or  an  unusually 
long  shot  had  to  be  made,  the  Guerrillas  nearest  said  one  to 
another:  "Where  is  Dick  Kinney?  Let  Dick  Kinney  try  his 
hand  at  that  d — d  blue  coat."  At  his  death  the  notches  on 
a  single  pistol  butt  numbered  forty-eight,  and  for  each  notch  a 
life  had  been  taken.  To-day  Frank  James  possesses  this  pistol 
— a  tragedy  thing  of  wood  and  iron. 

It  might  be  thought  that  the  wild  license  of  Guerrilla  life,  the 
freedom  from  restraint,  the  constant  acting  face  to  face  with 
death,  would  breed  desperate  quarrels  by  the  score  and  make 
those  who  in  days  of  concentration  preyed  upon  the  enemy, 
prey  upon  themselves  in  hours  of  disbandment  and  relaxation. 
The  contrary  was  the  case.  But  one  rencontre  can  be  recorded 
in  all  the  long  four  years  of  terrible  fighting  and  killing.  In 
September,  1864,  a  difficulty  occurred  between  Joel  Chiles  and 
William  Ridings.  Chiles  was  a  Missourian,  and  Ridings  a 


312  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OR 

young  Texan,  just  seventeen  years  of  age,  and  the  only  Texan 
belonging  to  the  Guerrillas.  Chiles  shot  Ridings  dead,  and 
wounded  at  the  same  time  Fletch  Taylor  and  William  Basham. 
Instantly  Basham  killed  Chiles,  and  that  was  the  first  and  the 
last  internal  difficulty  the  Guerrillas  ever  experienced. 

Gathering  together  hastily  with  something  of  a  shiver  and 
more  of  a  start,  the  Federal  garrisons  throughout  Northeast 
Missouri  massed  a  column  of  one  thousand  cavalry,  accompanied 
by  a  six  gun  battery,  and  sent  it  out  hurriedly  on  the  track  of 
the  retreating  Guerrillas.  Its  first  dash  at  the  rear  was  rather 
spirited.  Plunk  Murray  had  an  arm  broken  and  a  minie  ball 
sent  into  his  left  side,  and  Richard  Ellington  escaped  barely 
with  his  life,  a  bullet  in  one  shoulder  and  one  leg.  Todd  picked 
thirty  men  instantly,  armed  them  with  Spencer  rifles,  and  put 
them  under  Arch  Clements  to  hold  the  rear.  It  was  a  royal 
rear  guard,  and  it  was  composed  of  David  and  John  Poole, 
Tuck,  Tom  and  Woot  Hill,  three  Guerrilla  brothers,  Jesse  and 
Frank  James,  Peyton  Long,  Ben  Broomfield,  Zack  Southerland, 
Ben  Morrow,  Harrison  Trow,  Richard  Burnes,  Geo.  Maddox, 
Frank  Gregg,  the  two  Noland  brothers,  Ed  Greenwood,  George 
Shepherd,  Oil  Shepherd,  John  Thrailkill,  John  Chestnut,  Captain 
Downing,  Ling  Litten,  Silas  King,  James  Commons,  William 
Hulse,  William  Stuart,  Jeff  Emery  and  Andy  McGuire.  For 
twenty-five  miles  this  rear  guard  fought  as  only  such  men  could 
fight.  A  tree  was  an  ambuscade  ;  a  hill-top  was  a  cover ;  hazel- 
brush  hid  half  a  score  of  riflemen ;  at  every  open  there  was  a 
charge ;  at  every  creek-crossing  a  grip  that  only  the  artillery 
could  unloose.  Thirty-seven  Federals  were  killed  in  the  pursuit 
and  eighty-eight  wounded  more  or  less  severely.  Thrailkill, 
Greenwood,  Maddox  and  William  Hulse  were  wounded  on  the 
part  of  the  Guerrillas,  and  Clements,  Tuck  Hill,  Poole,  and 
Frank  James  had  their  horses  killed.  Never  a  single  time  was 
this  rear  guard  worsted  in  a  grapple  or  made  to  fall  back  faster 
than  in  a  walk.  After  fighting  the  pursuing  militia  until  dark 
and  providing  places  of  safety  for  the  wounded,  Todd  dis- 
banded his  forces  October  5th,  1864.  Poole,  with  twenty-five 
men,  struck  a  German  settlement  on  his  way  to  Lafayette 
county,  and  killed  twenty-two  home  guards,  while  Todd,  taking 
with  him  Jesse  and  Frank  James,  William  and  Henry  Nolan, 
Harrison  Trow,  Ben  Morrow,  John  House  and  John  Hope, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  313 

went  into  Howard  to  hunt  for  Quantrell.  He  could  not  or  did 
not  find  him  anywhere  within  the  county,  and  so  sent  in  his 
own  name  Frank  James,  the  Nolans,  Morrow,  Trow  and 
House  into  Jackson  county  to  arouse  the  Guerrillas  still  there 
with  the  news  of  Price's  advance  into  Missouri,  while  he,  with 
Jesse  James  and  John  Hope,  returned  to  Anderson,  camped  yet 
in  the  eastern  edge  of  Howard.  After  a  brief  conference, 
Anderson  and  Thomas  Todd,  commanding  between  them  three 
hundred  men,  moved  instantly  to  meet  Price,  while  Poole  and 
George  Todd  crossed  to  the  south  side  of  the  Missouri  river  and 
marched  up  into  Cooper  county,  killing  fifteen  home  guards 
eight  miles  south  of  Boonville.  Syracuse  fell  next  with  twenty 
militia,  who  were  killed.  The  depot  was  burned,  the  railroad 
track  torn  up,  and  the  telegraph  line  destroyed  into  and 
up  to  the  railroad  bridge  across  the  Lamine  river.  This 
also  was  destroyed.  Peyton  Long  killed  a  courier  here 
disguised  as  a  mule  driver.  When  searched  he  had,  in 
addition  to  his  dispatches,  two  human  ears  recently  cut 
from  some  victim's  head.  Long  scalped  this  man  and 
cut  off  his  ears  also,  nailing  them  to  the  first  Union  man's 
gate  post  he  passed  on  the  road.  Otterville  fell  next,  its  gar- 
rison of  twenty-two  militia  being  cut  to  pieces  and  its  depot 
burned.  From  Otterville  to  Brownsville,  in  Saline  county,  Todd 
and  Poole  killed  probably  a  hundred  militia,  and  from  Browns- 
ville through  Lafayette  county  to  the  Missouri  river,  fifty  more. 
On  the  morning  of  October  9th  a  raid  from  their  camp  at 
Blackwater  was  determined  upon.  Poole — taking  with  him  as 
an  advance  John  Poole,  Al  Scott,  Frank  Gregg,  Jesse  James, 
Ed  Greenwood,  Andy  McGuire,  James  Younger,  Lafe  Privin, 
James  Commons  and  Peyton  Long — rode  ahead  with  his  ten 
men,  the  front  of  a  Guerrilla  column  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
three  strong.  The  object  of  the  raid  was  to  break  up  a  German 
military  organization  somewhat  unfavorably  known  locally  in 
Lafayette  county.  The  militia  were  by  no  means  asleep. 
Forewarned  of  Todd's  coming,  they  attended  speedily  to  the 
forearming  part.  An  ambuscade  of  one  hundred  men  was 
formed  in  some  hazel  brush  close  to  the  road,  and  fourteen  cav- 
alry sent  down  to  meet  the  head  of  the  Guerrilla  column,  fire 
upon  it,  and  fall  back — the  old  style  of  stratagem,  and  yet  one 
which  had  never  grown  old.  Two  miles  from  the  camp  upon 


314  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OE 

Blackwater,  Poole,  well  ahead  of  Todd,  met  the  fourteen 
Federals  and  charged  them  with  a  yell,  driving  what  were  not 
ridden  over  and  killed  through  the  ambuscade  and  beyond  it  at 
a  terrific  pace.  Todd,  hearing  only  the  firing  in  front,  followed 
it  at  a  gallop  and  came,  caring  naught  for  what  might  be  on 
either  hand,  full  into  the  jaws  of  the  trap.  The  close  volley  that 
spurted  out  in  the  very  faces  of  his  men  astonished  but  did  not 
demoralize  him.  It  was  as  a  flea-bite  to  a  bloodhound. 
Hiram  Masterson,  Presley  Jobson,  Thomas  Sorrels,  William 
Toothman  and  Archibald  Smoot  fell  dead  from  their  horses,  and 
Levi  Potts  and  Ves  Atchison  were  wounded ;  but  Todd  dashed 
furiously  into  the  brush  and  broke  up  the  ambuscade  as  a 
whirlwind  breaks  up  an  oak  tree.  Ordinarily  such  an  ambush- 
ment  would  have  held  well  against  a  column  no  greater  in  its 
superiority  than  Todd's  to  the  Federal,  but  instead  of  a  man  to 
combat  there  was  a  lion.  The  scene  of  silent  killing  in  the 
tangled  undergrowth  was  sickening.  Of  the  hundred  hiding 
there  twenty-two  in  all  escaped,  and  these  because  the  con- 
tinued firing  in  the  front  admonished  Todd  of  duty  pressing 
otherwheres  and  urgent. 

Meanwhile  Poole  had  killed  ten  of  the  fourteen  decoy  cavalry- 
men, while  hard  and  fast  on  the  track  of  the  remainder  there 
rushed  Jesse  James,  John  Poole,  Andy  McGuire,  and  Ed  Green- 
wood. Two  of  the  last  four  had  just  fallen,  and  the  other  two 
were  well  nigh  spent  and  hopeless,  when  full  tilt,  pursuers  and 
pursued  ran  furiously  into  the  advance  of  a  Federal  column, 
two  hundred  strong.  It  was  touch  and  go  all  around.  As  fast 
as  they  had  followed  a  flying  foe,  so  in  turn  were  they  followed, 
shot  at  and  hallooed  to  at  every  jump.  Finally,  Jesse  James* 
splendid  race  mare,  which  had  carried  him  so  superbly  at  Cen- 
tralia,  fell,  killed,  beneath  him.  John  Poole  and  McGuire  had 
fired  their  last  cartridge.  They  could  neither  help  themselves 
nor  their  comrade.  Ed  Greenwood  turned  savagely  at  bay, 
however,  and  fought  as  though  he  were  fighting  for  his  own  life. 
Presently  his  horse  fell  beneath  him,  and  then — side  by  side  and 
afoot  —  these  two  desperate  Guerrillas  gathered  themselves 
together  for  the  worst.  If  the  Federals  had  clashed  up  to  them 
at  the  first,  both  inevitably  must  have  perished.  Shot  in  the 
left  arm  and  side,  James  fell  to  his  knees,  caught  himself,  and 
arose  again.  Greenwood,  hit  hard  in  the  right  leg,  slopped 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER         315 

firing,  sat  down  calmly  in  a  rain  of  bullets,  and  tied  above  the 
wound  tightly  a  cravat  borrowed  from  his  comrade.  Content 
to  fire  at  long  range,  the  Federals  by  and  by  came  closer  and 
closer.  The  end  was  at  hand.  James,  sheltered  behind  his 
dead  horse,  had  already  shot  down  five  of  the  nearest,  and 
Greenwood  three,  when  a  yell  was  heard  in  the  rear  and  Poole 
and  Todd,  just  in  time,  and  altogether,  dashed  furiously  up  to 
the  rescue.  The  work  that  followed  was  similar  to  the  work 
done  by  Todd  at  the  ambuscade.  The  day's  deeds  closed  with 
the  killing  of  one  hundred  and  seventeen  German  militia,  and 
the  buriiin^  of  thirty-five  houses  throughout  their  settlement. 
A  citizen  also  was  killed  this  day  by  the  name  of  Prigmore,  who 
was  mistaken  for  his  brother,  and  who  was  a  kindly,  inoffensive 
man.  Andy  McGuire,  hung  after  the  war  at  Richmond,  Ray 
county,  or,  rather,  murdered,  killed  eleven  in  the  two  series  of 
engagements,  Peyton  Long  six,  Jesse  James,  wounded  twice, 
ten,  Dick  Burnes  five,  William  Hulse  eight,  Frank  Gregg 
three,  Bud  Pence  three,  Poole  five,  Frank  Gray  five,  Todd  ten, 
John  Chestnut  four,  Si  Gordon  three,  John  Poole  seven,  Al 
Scott  four,  Jack  Rupe  three,  George  Shepherd  ten,  John  Thrail- 
kill  five,  Oil  Shepherd  five,  and  several  others  one  apiece. 
After  the  fight  Todd  again  disbanded  to  meet  on  the  22d  at 
Bone  Hill,  in  Jackson  county. 

Gen.  Sterling  Price  had  entered  Missouri  from  the  direction 
of  Pocahontas,  Arkansas,  and  had  leisurely  advanced  into  the 
State.  He  fought  at  Pilot  Knob  and  was  worsted,  but  his  various 
divisions  afterwards  were  fighting  successfully  over  a  large  extent 
of  territory  and  creating  as  much  as  possible  that  diversion  so 
much  needed  by  Joseph  E.  Johnston,  and  for  which  the  expedi- 
tion into  the  State  had  been  created.  He  avoided  St.  Louis, 
invested  Jefferson  City,  occupied  Boonville,  captured  Glas- 
gow, drove  Lane  out  of  Lexington,  and  was  in  camp  on  Fire 
Prairie,  in  Lafayette  county,  when  Todd,  having  gathered 
together  the  bulk  of  his  Guerrillas,  reported  to  Gen.  Shelby  on 
the  morning  of  the  23d.  Shelby's  advance  had  been  led 
valiantly  by  Capt.  Arthur  McCoy,  and  he  associated  Todd  with 
him  and  bade  them  fight  together.  McCoy  had  never  been  a 
Guerrilla.  He  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  Guerrillas 
except  their  desperation.  He  was  a  tinner  working  in  St.  Louis 
when  the  war  commenced.  At  the  first  tap  of  the  recruiting 


316  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,   OR 

drum,  impetuous  as  a  boy  and  as  eager,  lie  espoused  the  cause 
of  the  South  and  joined  the  1st  Missouri  Confederate  Infantry, 
Bowen's  immortal  yet  decimated  regiment — that  regiment 
which  Beauregard  lifted  his  hat  to  as  it  was  marching  past — or, 
rather,  to  what  was  left  of  it — after  Shiloh,  and  exclaimed:  "I 
salute  the  1st  Missouri.  I  uncover  to  courage  that  has  never 
yet  been  surpassed." 

In  the  infantry,  however,  McCoy  would  have  dwindled  into  a 
consumptive — for  his  chest  was  weak,  and  he  had  that  hectic 
flush,  and  that  dry,  short,  rasping  cough  that  were  ominous. 
He  needed  the  air  and  the  exercise  of  a  Comanche.  He  had  to 
breath  where  there  were  no  canvas  houses,  no  shelter,  no 
covering  save  a  blanket,  and  no  habitation  save  the  leaves  on 
the  trees. 

After  Shiloh,  the  name  and  fame  of  Shelby  were  beginning  to 
fill  the  West,  and  there  came  to  him,  attracted  by  the  unexam- 
pled enterpise  and  heroism  of  the  man,  quite  a  large  number  of 
daring  spirits  who  asked  only  esprit  du  corps  and  a  leader  that 
would  fight  every  hour  in  every  day  for  a  year  and  a  day. 
Among  them  was  Arthur  McCoy,  one  of  Bowen's  best  and 
bravest — one  whom  he  trusted  and  loved — but  one  whom  he 
knew  had  to  go  the  long  journey  very  soon  if  held  in  the 
poisonous  camps  of  an  army,  inactive  and  at  rest.  A  tall, 
gaunt  man  was  Arthur  McCoy,  six  feet  and  over,  a  little  stooped 
about  the  shoulders,  very  long  in  the  arms,  having  a  stride  like 
a  race-horse,  and  a  nervous  energy  that  was  expending  itself 
even  while  he  slept.  All  the  lower  face  was  massive — the  lower 
jaw  especially  square  cut  and  huge.  The  eyes  were  of  that 
cold,  glittering,  penetrating  blue  that  might  be  cruel  as  a  ser- 
pent's, soft  and  tender  as  the  eyes  of  confidence  or  trust.  When 
the  battle  was  dubious  or  desperate,  or  when  the  wreck  was 
darkest  and  thickest,  and  the  dead  lay  rank  and  plentiful,  the 
eyes  seemed  to  transform  themselves  and  become  absolutely 
scintillant.  About  the  man's  whole  nature,  too,  there  was  an 
element  of  grotesqueness  impossible  to  analyze.  He  sang  little 
snatches  of  song  in  battle ;  he  rode  out  in  advance  of  his  own 
skirmish  line  and  challenged  Federal  skirmishers  to  single 
combat ;  he  would  get  down  on  his  knees  under  fire  the  most 
pitiless,  uncover  himself,  and  pray  fervently  beside  some  comrade 
mortally  wounded ;  he  seemed  never  to  have  known  w  hat  the  mean- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER         317 

ing  of  fear  was  ;  he  begged  incessantly  to  be  sent  upon  forlorn  and 
desperate  service;  he  was  a  spy  without  a  peer  in  either  army; 
he  was  a  scout  that  seemed  to  have  leagued  with  the  devil  and 
received  from  his  majesty  invaluable  protection  papers;  he 
charged  picquets  for  pastime,  and  rode  yelling  and  shooting 
through  Federal  outposts,  at  the  head  of  fifty  or  sixty  followers, 
at  all  hours  and  in  any  weather.  Shelby's  division  gave  him  the 
soubriquet  of  the  'wWild  Irishman,"  and  yet  for  cold,  calm, 
penetrating  soldier-sense — for  acuteness,  military  logic  and 
undoubted  strategy,  McCoy  had  the  head  of  a  Vidocq  and  the 
nerve  of  d'Artagnan.  Seven  times  during  the  war — through 
the  Federal  lines,  and  past  scouts,  patrols,  cantonments,  and 
militia  and  predatory  bands — McCoy  came  into  St.  Louis  with  a 
thousand  letters  at  a  time,  and  departed  hence  with  as  many 
more. 

Once,  on  his  many  trips  into  St.  Louis,  and  in  company  with 
Captain  John  Howard,  also  of  the  same  city,  a  man  in  no  man- 
ner inferior  to  McCoy  m  dash  and  heroism,  he  visited  a  house 
at  which  there  were  two  Federal  officers  and  several  ladies. 
McCoy  had  with  him  an  elegant  cavalry  uniform  for  a  Confed- 
erate colonel,  and  as  he  was  just  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  he 
concluded  to  take  his  farewell  in  the  following  manner:  He 
requested  one  of  the  ladies  to  play  Dixie,  and  she  politely  con- 
sented. The  Federal  officers  looked  annoyed,  but  remained 
quiet.  As  the  tune  began  to  fill  the  room  and  the  music  to  ex- 
pand the  blood  as  it  were  and  put  fire  into  the  eyes,  McCoy  sud- 
denly sprang  to  his  feet,  covered  the  Federal  major  with  his 
unerring  revolver,  and  bade  him  get  up  and  dance.  The  officer 
refused.  McCoy  still  insisted  more  sternly,  and  declared  that 
he  should  not  only  dance,  but  that  he  should  put  on  a  rebel  uni- 
form for  once  in  his  life,  lift  his  hat  at  the  mention  of  the  name 
of  Jefferson  Davis,  and  dance  to  the  tune  of  Dixie.  Seeing 
murder  in  McCoy's  cold  blue  eyes,  the  Federal  major  complied 
with  each  order  strictly,  and  actually  in  the  full  uniform  of  a 
Confederate  colonel  did  dance  to  the  music  of  Dixie,  his  com- 
panion, a  lieutenant  of  the  Eighth  Missouri  Federal  infantry, 
looking  on  and  applauding  vociferously. 

As  McCoy  rode  out  from  St.  Louis,  in  the  cold  gray  of  the 
following  morning,  the  devil  still  seemed  to  have  possession  of 
him.  As  he  passed  Benton  Barracks  a  sentinel  stood  by  the 


318  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

roadside  with  his  gun  at  a  right  shoulder  shift.  McCoy  rode  up 
to  him  and  halted:  "I  am  a  Confederate  officer.  I  represent 
the  Confederate  President — if  you  should  present  arms  to  me  I 
should  consider  that  you  had  presented  them  to  Mr.  Jefferson 
Davis.  Present  arms!"  The  sentinel  thought  the  man  was 
evidently  mad.  It  was  still  early  morning.  No  soldiers  were 
astir  anywhere  about  the  barracks.  McCoy's  revolver  was  at 
the  soldier's  breast  before  he  could  take  his  musket  from  his 
shoulder.  '•  You  will  not  present  arms  to  me  ?"  "  Not  to  save 
your  life."  "But  you  see  I  have  the  drop  on  you!  Do  you 
want  me  to  kill  you?"  Still  thinking  McCoy  was  one  of  his  own 
uniform,  and  being  drunk  or  mischievous,  was  trying  to  play  a 
prank  on  him,  the  sentinel  replied,  "  shoot  and  be  d — d!" 

McCoy's  face  darkened  instantly,  and  he  cocked  his  pistol. 
"  I  will  not  shoot  you  so,"  he  said,  "  nor  will  I  shoot  you  at  all 
without  giving  3^011  a  chance  for  j^our  life.  Listen,  I  shall  ride 
back  fifty  paces,  turn  my  horse,  and  charge  you.  As  I  come 
by  I  shall  fire  at  you  once.  You  have  but  one  shot  and  I 
who  have  eighteen  will  take  but  one  also.  Get  ready." 

The  sentinel,  as  he  saw  McCoy  deliberately  countermarch  and 
wheel  about  to  charge,  began,  at  last,  to  have  his  suspicions 
aroused.  He  took  his  musket  from  his  shoulder  and  cocked  it 
and  waited.  McCoy  dashed  furiously  down  upon  the  sentinel, 
and  the  sentinel,  when  he  was  within  about  ten  paces  of  him, 
fired  at  point  blank  range  and  missed.  As  McCoy  passed  him, 
he  put  out  his  pistol  suddenly  and  shot  him  down  where  he 
stood,  the  garrison  turning  out  in  force,  and  hurriedly  saddled, 
cavalry  coming  on  in  rapid  pursuit.  The  sentinel,  however, 
although  badly  wounded,  finally  recovered,  and  McCoy,  scarcely 
quickening  his  pace,  rode  on  southward  unmolested. 

Once  the  Federals  had  him  a  prisoner.  His  escape  was,  in 
every  way,  characteristic  of  the  man.  He  had  been  on  a  scout 
with  eight  men  towards  the  Mississippi  river.  Seventy-three 
Federals  started  him  in  a  cane  brake  and  never  stopped  pursu- 
ing him  for  eleven  miles.  Finally  they  killed  his  horse  and  lit- 
erally rode  over  and  crushed  him.  He  was  carried  to  De  VaPs 
Bluff  previous  to  being  conveyed  to  St.  Louis  for  trial  as  a  spy 
and  desperado.  Shelby  was  at  Clarendon,  twelve  miles  below, 
on  White  river,  and  when  the  night  came — a  very  dark 
and  gloomy  night — McCoy  broke  suddenly  away  from  his 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  319 

guards  and  leaped  he  ad -fore  most  into  the  river.  The 
waves  were  rough  and  the  wind  was  blowing.  Two  hun- 
dred shots  were  fired  at  him  in  the  darkness,  and  innumer- 
able yawls  put  out  from  the  steamers  and  gunboats  in  search  of 
the  desperate  Irishman.  He  was  a  fine  swimmer,  and  without 
using  his  arms  in  any  manner,  he  drifted  down  under  the  stern 
of  the  gunboat  Tyler,  and  hid  himself  there  for  over  an  hour,  or 
until  all  pursuit  was  abandoned.  Then  letting  go  his  hold,  the 
current  carried  him  on  past  all  danger  and  safe  into  the  lines  of 
his  old  brigade. 

Later,  in  1864,  a  deed  was  done  by  McCoy  which  attracted 
the  attention  and  won  the  admiration  of  two  opposing  forces. 
General  John  B.  Clark  was  attacking  Glasgow  from  one  side  of 
the  river,  in  1864,  and  General  Shelby  from  the  other.  Between 
the  two  lines  drawn  about  the  doomed  town  were  the  Federal 
forts  and  garrison  commanded  by  General  Chester  Harding.  A 
large  steamboat  lay  at  the  wharf  and  Shelby  desired  to  know  if 
it  were  serviceable;  if  it  were,  he  intended  to  man  it  and  ferry 
over  his  command,  and  to  attack  from  the  north  side.  He  did 
not  want  to  sacrifice  over  one  man  in  the  perilous  undertaking, 
and  he  did  not  desire  to  order  any  soldier  to  perform  the 
desperate  duty.  Volunteers  were  called  for,  and  while  fifty 
came  to  the  front,  McCoy  was  chosen  because  he  knew  more 
than  any  of  them  about  steamboats  and  their  machinery,  and 
because  he  pleaded  so  hard  to  be  permitted  to  take  the  risk. 
He  started  in  a  skiff  as  slight  as  a  pasteboard.  Having  to  pull 
himself,  his  back  was  necessarily  to  the  town,  thus  depriving 
him  of  whatever  advantage  he  might  have  attained  by  watching 
the  operations  of  the  enemy.  Glasgow  is  built  upon  a  hill,  and 
from  the  foot  of  the  bluff  to  the  river  there  is  probably  a  stretch 
of  bottom  land  a  dozen  paces  across.  Closely  engaged  from 
the  south,  the  Federal  skirmishers  did  not  descend  from  the  hill 
tops,  where,  half  hidden  and  partially  intrenched,  they  fired 
closely  and  vigorously  upon  McCoy.  He  kept  right  onward. 
As  he  left  the  shelter  of  his  own  lines,  the  bullets  thickened  in 
the  water  about  him  and  fairly  plowed  up  the  surface  of  the 
river  with  lead.  Collins,  with  two  guns  of  his  memorable  bat- 
tery, succored  him  all  that  was  possible  and  threw  canister 
rapidly  into  the  skirmishers.  Once  when  the  fire  was  desper- 
ately hot,  McCoy  turned  around  upon  his  seat,  ceased  rowing, 


320  NOTED  GUEKKILLAS,  OR 

and  lifted  his  hat  to  the  Federal  sharpshooters.  Both  sides 
cheered  spontaneously.  How  he  escaped  is  a  matter  yet  unex- 
plained. Probably  two  hundred  men  fired  at  him,  each  man 
firing  five  shots,  or  one  thousand  shots  in  all.  Blood  was  not 
drawn  once  from  his  body,  miraculous  to  relate.  One  bullet 
cut  off  a  lock  of  his  hair,  another  knocked  his  cap  into  the 
river,  which  he  deliberately  stopped  to  pick  up,  seven  balls 
struck  'the  skiff  in  various  parts,  four  more  went  through  his 
clothes,  and  one  cut  almost  in  two  at  the  oar-lock  the  left  hand 
oar.  In  despite  of  everything,  however,  McCoy  gained  the 
northern  bank,  landed  the  boat,  obtained  what  information  he 
desired,  and  actually  returned  as  he  had  crossed  under  a 
tremendous  volley  of  small  arms. 

Once  he  fought  a  duel — a  duel  to  the  death — but  not  one  of 
his  own  seeking.  In  the  Western  army  there  were  many  Con- 
federate Indians,  and  in  a  Choctaw  regiment  there  was  a  young 
half-breed  captain  who  had  a  pony  sensible  enough  to  have  been 
a  circus  pony.  It  would  dance,  talk  with  its  head,  fire  off  a 
pistol,  and  do  other  and  numerous  tricks  at  the  bidding  of  its 
master.  McCoy  owned  a  savage  stallion,  a  favorite,  however, 
because  of  its  fleetness  and  strength.  The  pony  and  the 
stallion  got  together  one  night,  and  the  next  morning  the 
Choctaw  had  no  pony — McCoy's  horse  having  literally  devoured 
him.  The  Indian  was  furious.  He  would  have  revenge.  He 
would  kill  the  horse  that  killed  his  horse.  He  started  to 
execute  his  threat.  McCoy  stood  across  his  path  with  a  drawn 
sabre  in  his  hand,  and  said  to  the  Choctaw:  "Arm  yourself. 
Shall  it  be  sword  or  pistol?  You  want  satisfaction  and  shall 
have  it.  My  horse's  hide  is  more  precious  than  my  own,  there- 
fore not  one  hair  upon  it  shall  be  ruffled."  The  Indian  chose 
a  sabre  also,  a  ring  was  formed,  seconds  appointed,  and  proba- 
bly half  a  brigade  gathered  to  see  the  desperate  work.  McCoy 
fenced  warily ;  the  Indian,  quick  and  savage.  Both  were 
wounded.  McCoy  had  an  ugly  cut  on  his  right  temple  and 
another  on  his  left  hip.  The  Indian  had  been  slashed  twice 
severely,  and  once  across  the  sabre  arm.  Each  was  getting 
weak.  Finally  McCoy  made  a  feint  as  if  he  would  deliver  the 
right  cut,  shortened  his  sword  arm,  and  ran  the  Indian  squarely 
through  the  body.  Thus  ended  the  fight  and  the  life  of  the 
Choctaw  as  well.  He  died  before  midnight. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  321 

Curtis'  heavy  division,  retreating  before  General  Price  all  the 
way  from  Lexington  to  Independence,  held  the  western  bank  of 
the  Little  Blue,  and  some  heavy  stone  walls  and  fences  beyond. 
Marmaduke  and  Shelby  broke  his  hold  loose  from  these,  and 
pressed  him  rapidly  back  to  and  through  Independence,  the  two 
Colorado  regiments  covering  his  rear  stubbornly  and  well. 
Side  by  side  McCoy  and  Todd  had  made  several  brilliant 
charges  during  the  morning,  and  had  driven  before  them  with 
great  spirit  and  dash  every  Colorado  squadron  halted  to  resist 
the  continual  marching  forward  of  the  Confederate  cavalry. 
Ere  the  pursuit  ended  for  the  day,  half  of  the  2d  Colorado 
regiment  drew  up  on  the  crest  of  a  bold  hill  and  made  a  gallant 
fight.  Their  Major,  Smith,  a  brave  and  dashing  officer,  was 
killed  here,  and  here  Todd  fell.  Gen.  Shelby,  as  was  his  wont, 
was  well  up  with  the  advance,  and  leading  recklessly  the  two 
companies  of  Todd  and  McCoy.  Next  to  Shelby's  right  rode 
Todd,  and  upon  his  left  was  McCoy.  Close  to  these  and  near 
to  the  front  files  were  Col.  Nichols,  Thrailkill,  Ben  Morrow, 
Ike  Flannery  and  Jesse  James.  The  trot  had  deepened  into  a 
gallop,  and  all  the  cloud  of  skirmishers  covering  the  head  of  the 
rushing  column  were  at  it,  fierce  and  hot,  when  the  2d  Colorado 
swept  the  road  with  a  furious  volley,  broke  away  from  the 
strong  position  held  by  them,  and  hurried  on  through  the  streets 
of  Independence  followed  by  the  untiring  McCoy,  as  lank  as  a 
fox-hound  and  as  eager. 

That  volley  killed  Todd.  A  Spencer  rifle  ball  entered  his 
neck  in  front,  passed  through  and  out  near  the  spine,  and  par- 
alyzed him.  Dying  as  he  fell,  he  was  yet  tenderly  taken  up 
and  carried  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Burns,  in  Independence. 
Articulating  with  great  difficulty  and  leaving  now  and  then 
almost  incoherent  messages  to  favorite  comrade  or  friend,  he 
lingered  for  two  hours  insensible  to  pain,  and  died  at  last 
as  a  Roman. 

George  Todd  was  a  Scotchman  born,  his  father  holding  an 
honorable  position  in  the  British  navy.  Destined  also  for  the 
sea,  it  was  the  misfortune  of  the  son  to  become  engaged  in  a 
personal  difficulty  in  his  eighteenth  year  and  kill  the  man  with 
whom  he  quarreled.  He  fled  to  Canada,  and  from  Canada  to 
the  United  States.  His  father  soon  after  resigned  and  followed 
him,  and  when  the  war  began  both  were  railroad  contractors  in 
21 


322  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

North  Missouri,  standing  well  with  everybody  for  business 
energy,  capacity  and  integrity. 

Todd  made  a  name  by  exceeding  desperation.  His  features 
presented  nothing  especial  which  could  attract  attention.  There 
was  no  sign  in  visible  characters  of  the  power  that  was  in  him. 
They  were  very  calm  always,  and  in  repose  a  little  stern ;  but  if 
anything  that  indicated  a  "look  of  destiny"  was  sought  for,  it 
was  not  to  be  found  about  the  face  of  George  Todd.  His  nature 
was  simple  and  confiding,  and  a  circumspect  regard  for  his 
word  made  him  a  very  true  but  sometimes  also  a  ve  ry  blunt 
man.  In  his  eyes  the  fittest  person  to  command  Gue  rrillas  was 
he  who  inspired  the  enemy  with  the  most  dread,  and  he  had  not 
been  long  in  the  brush  before  people  began  to  say:  "That  man 
George  Todd  is  a  tiger.  He  fights  always.  He  is  not  happy 
unless  he  is  fighting.  He  will  either  be  kille  d  soon  or  he  will  do 
a  great  amount  of  killing."  It  has  just  been  seen  that  he  was  not 
killed  until  October,  1864 — a  three  };rears'  lease  of  life  that  for 
desperate  Guerrilla  work  never  had  a  counterpart.  By  and  by 
the  Guerrillas  themselves  felt  confidence  in  such  a  name,  reliance 
in  such  an  arm,  favor  for  such  a  face.  It  was  sufficient  for 
Todd  to  order  a  march  to  be  implicitly  followed,  to  plan  an 
expedition  to  have  it  immediately  carried  out,  to  indicate  a  spot 
on  which  to  assemble  to  cause  an  organization  sometimes 
widely  scattered  or  dispersed  to  come  together  as  the  jaws  of 
a  steel-trap.  Nature  gave  him  the  restlessness  of  a  born  cav- 
alryman, and  the  exterior  and  the  power  of  voice  necessary  to 
a  leader  of  desperate  men.  Coolness,  intrepidity,  and  immense 
activity  were  his  main  attributes  as  a  commander.  Always 
more  ready  to  strike  than  to  speak,  if  he  talked  at  all  it  was 
only  after  a  combat  had  been  had,  and  then  modestly.  His 
conviction  was  the  part  he  played,  and  he  sustained  with 
unflinching  courage  and  unflagging  consistency  that  which  he 
had  set  down  for  his  hands  to  do.  A  splendid  pistol  shot,  fear- 
less as  a  horseman,  knowing  human  nature  well  enough  to  choose 
desperate  men  and  ambitious  men,  reticent,  heroic  beyond  the 
conception  of  most  conservative  people,  and  covered  with  blood 
as  he  was  to  his  brow,  his  fall  was  yet  majestic  because  it  was 
accompanied  by  patriotism. 

Before  the  evacuation  of  Independence,  Todd  was  buried  by 
his  men  in  the  cemetery  there,  and  Poole  succeeded  to  the  com- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  323 

mand  of  his  company,  leading  it  splendidly.  The  night  they 
buried  Todd,  Ike  Flannery,  Dick  Burnes,  Andy  McGuire,  Ben 
Morrow,  Press  Webb,  Harrison  Trow,  Lafe  Privin,  George 
Shepherd,  George  Maddox,  Allen  Parmer,  Dan  Vaughn,  Jesse 
and  Frank  James  and  John  Ross  took  a  solemn  oath  by  the 
open  grave  of  the  dead  man  to  avenge  his  death,  and  for  the 
following  three  days  of  incessant  battle  it  was  remarked  how 
desperately  they  fought  and  how  long. 

Until  Gen.  Price  started  Southward  from  Mine  creek  in  full 
retreat,  the  Guerrillas  under  Poole  remained  with  him,  scouting 
and  picqeuting,  and  fighting  with  the  advance.  After  Mine 
creek  they  returned  to  Bone  Hill,  in  Jackson  county,  some 
going  afterwards  to  Kentucky  with  Quantrell,  and  some  to  Texas 
with  George  Shepherd. 

Henceforward  the  history  of  the  Guerrillas  of  Missouri  must 
be  the  history  of  detachments  and  isolated  squads,  fighting 
always  but  fighting  without  coherency  or  other  desire  than  to 
kill.  Anderson  had  joined  Price  at  Boonville  and  the  meeting 
was  a  memorable  one.  The  bridles  of  the  horses  the  men  rode 
were  adorned  with  scalps.  One  huge,  red-bearded  Guerrilla — 
six  feet  and  over,  and  girdled  about  the  waist  with  an  armory  of 
revolvers — had  dangling  from  every  conceivable  angle  a  profuse 
array  of  these  ghastly  trophies.  Gen.  Price  was  shocked  at 
such  evidences  of  a  warfare  so  utterly  repugnant  to  a  com- 
mander of  his  known  generosity  and  forbearance,  and  he  ordered 
sternly  that  they  be  thrown  away  at  once.  He  questioned 
Anderson  long  of  Missouri ;  of  the  forces  in  the  State ;  of  the 
temper  of  the  people  ;  of  the  nature  of  Guerrilla  warfare  ;  of  its 
relative  advantages  and  disadvantages,  and  then  when  he  had 
heard  all  he  blessed  the  Guerrillas  probably  with  about  as  much 
unction  as  Balaam  blessed  Israel.  Gen.  Price  was  a  merciful 
man.  Equable  in  every  relation  of  life,  conservative  by  nature 
and  largely  tolerant  through  his  earlier  political  training, 
thousands  living  to-day  live  solely  because  none  of  the  harsher 
and  crueler  indulgencies  of  the  civil  war  were  permitted  to  the 
troops  commanded  by  this  conscientious  officer.  Finally,  how- 
ever, he  ordered  Anderson  back  into  North  Missouri,  and  he 
crossed  at  Boonville  upon  his  last  career  of  leave-taking, 
desperation,  and  death.  Tired  of  tearing  up  railroad  tracks, 
cutting  down  telegraph-poles,  destroying  miles  and  miles  of 


324  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

wire,  burning  depots,  and  picking  up  and  killing  isolated  militia, 
terrified  at  the  uprising  in  favor  of  Price,  Anderson  dashed  into 
Danville,  Montgomery  county,  where  sixty  Federals  were 
stationed  in  houses  and  other  strong  places.  He  had  but  fifty- 
seven  men,  and  the  fight  was  close  and  hot.  Gooly  Robinson, 
one  of  his  best  soldiers,  was  mortally  wounded,  while  exposing 
himself  in  a  most  reckless  manner.  It  was  difficult  to  get  the 
enemy  out  of  the  houses.  Snatching  up  torches,  and  braving 
the  guns  of  the  entrenched  Federals,  Dick  and  Ike  Berry  put  fire 
to  one  house,  Arch  Clements  and  Dick  West  to  another,  Theo. 
Castle,  John  Maupin,  and  Mose  Huffaker  to  a  third,  and  Ben 
Broomfield,  Tuck,  Tom,  and  Woot  Hill  to  the  fourth.  It  was  a 
night  of  terror  and  agony.  As  the  militia  ran  out  they  were 
shot  down  by  the  Guerrillas  in  the  shadow.  Some,  wounded, 
burnt  to  death;  and  others,  stifled  by  the  heat  and  smoke, 
rushed,  gasping  and  blackened  into  the  air,  to  be  riddled  with 
bullets.  Eight  barely  of  the  garrison  of  sixty  escaped  the 
holocaust,  and  Anderson  turned  west  towards  Kansas  City, 
expecting  to  overtake  Gen.  Price  there.  En  route  he  killed  as 
he  rode.  Scarcely  an  hour  of  all  the  long  march  was  barren  of 
a  victim.  Union  men,  militia,  Federal  soldiers,  home  guards, 
Germans  on  general  principles — no  matter  what  the  class  or  the 
organization — if  they  were  pro-United  States  they  were  killed. 
On  the  25th  of  October,  while  well  advanced  in  Ray  county, 
he  received  the  first  news  of  the  death  of  Todd  and  the  retreat 
of  Price.  By  this  time,  however,  he  had  recruited  his  own 
command  to  several  hundred,  and  had  joined  it  to  a  detachment 
of  regular  Confederates,  guiding  and  guarding  to  the  South  a 
motley  aggregation  of  recruits,  old  and  young.  Halting  one 
day  to  rest,  and  to  prepare  for  a  passage  across  the  Missouri 
river,  Anderson  moved  on  the  morning  of  the  27th  towards  the 
spot  selected  for  the  crossing — an  out  of  the  way  place  in  the 
bottom  above  Camden.  Barring  his  passage  to  it,  and  having 
every  advantage  of  position  and  numbers,  Anderson  found  one 
thousand  Federals — eight  hundred  infantry  and  two  hundred 
cavalry.  He  made  haste  to  attack  them.  His  young  Lieuten- 
ant, Arch  Clements,  advised  him  urgently  against  a  fight,  as  did 
Capt.  A.  E.  Asbury,  a  young  and  gallant  Confederate  officer, 
who  was  in  company  with  him,  commanding  fifty  recruits. 
Others  of  his  associates  did  the  same,  notably  Col.  John  Holt,  a 


WOOT  HILL. 


TUCK  HILL. 


THE  W Alt  FARE  OF  THE  BORDER  325 

Confedrate  officer,  and  Col.  James  H.  R.  Cundiff.  Captain 
Asbury  was  a  cool,  brave,  wary  man,  who  had  had  large  expe- 
rience in  border  fighting,  and  who  knew  that  for  a  desperate 
charge  raw  recruits  could  not  be  depended  upon.  Anderson 
would  not  be  held  back.  Ordering  a  charge,  he  led  it  himself 
furiously,  and  was  fifty  feet  ahead  of  every  follower  when  he 
was  killed.  Next  to  him  was  William  Smith,  a  veteran  Guer- 
rilla of  four  years'  service.  Five  balls  struck  him,  and  three 
struck  Anderson.  Next  to  Smith  was  John  Maupin,  who  was 
wounded  twice,  and  next  to  Maupin,  Cundiff,  who  was  also  hit, 
and  next  to  Cundiff,  Asbury,  who  got  four  bullets  through  his 
clothes.  John  Holt,  Jim  Crow  Chiles,  and  Peyton  Long  had 
horses  killed.  The  three  Hill  brothers,  Dick  West,  and  ten 
others  of  Anderson's  old  company  fought  their  way  up  to 
Anderson's  body,  and  sought  to  bring  it  out.  Tuck  Hill  was 
shot,  his  brother  Woot,  and  West.  Their  wounds  were  severe 
but  not  mortal.  Once  they  succeeded  in  placing  it  upon  a 
horse ;  the  horse  was  killed  and  fell  upon  the  corpse  and  held  it 
to  the  ground.  Still  struggling  heroically  over  the  body  of 
their  idolized  commander,  Hank  Patterson  fell  dead,  not  a  foot 
from  the  dead  Guerrilla.  Next,  Simonds  was  killed,  and  then 
Anson  Tolliver,  and  then  Paul  Debenhorst,  and  then  Smith 
Jobson,  and  then  Luckett,  then  John  Mcllvaine,  and  finally 
Jasper  Moody  and  William  Tarkington.  Nothing  could  live 
before  the  fire  of  the  concealed  infantry  and  the  Spencer  car- 
bines of  the  cavalry.  A  single  blanket  might  have  covered  the 
terrible  heap  of  dead  and  wounded  who  fought  to  recover  all 
that  remained  of  that  tiger  of  the  jungle.  John  Pringle,  the 
red-headed  giant  of  the  Boonville  scalps,  far  ahead  of  his  com-, 
pany,  was  the  last  man  killed,  struggling  even  to  the  death  to 
bear  back  the  corpse.  He  was  a  captain  of  a  company,  and  a 
veteran  of  the  Mexican  war,  but  he  did  what  he  would  not 
order  his  men  to  do,  he  rushed  up  to  the  co^se  heap  and 
fastened  about  the  leg  of  Anderson  a  lariat  that  he  might  drag 
the  body  away.  The  Federals  killed  his  horse.  Shot  once,  he 
tugged  at  the  rope  himself,  bleeding  pitifully.  Shot  again,  he 
fell,  struggled  up  to  his  feet,  fired  every  barrel  of  three  revolvers 
into  the  enemy,  and  received  as  a  counter-blow  two  more 
bullets.  This  time  he  did  not  rise  again,  nor  stir,  nor  make 
moan.  All  the  wild  boar  blood  in  his  veins  had  been  poured 


326  XOTED  GUEHfilLLAS,   OK 

out,  and  the  bronzed  face  from  being  rigid  had  become  to  be 
august.  Joseph  and  Arch  Nicholson,  William  James,  dell 
Miller,  and  John  Warren,  all  young  recruits  in  their  first  battle, 
fought  savagely  in  the  meZee,  and  all  were  wounded.  Miller, 
among  those  who  strove  to  rescue  the  corpse  of  Anderson,  was 
shot,  and  Warren,  wounded  four  times,  crawled  back  from  the 
slaughter-pen  with  difficulty. 

William  Anderson  was  a  strange  man.  If  the  waves  of  the 
civil  war  had  not  cast  him  up  as  the  avenger  of  one  sister  assas- 
sinated and  another  maimed,  he  would  have  lived  through  it 
peacefully,  the  devil  that  existed  within  him  sleeping  on,  and 
the  terrible  powers  latent  there  remaining  unaroused.  It  is 
probable  that  he  did  not  know  his  own  nature.  He  certainly 
could  not  have  anticipated  the  almost  miraculous  transfiguration 
that  came  to  him  on  the  eve  of  his  first  engagement — that  sort 
of  a  transfiguration  which  found  him  a  stripling  and  left  him  a 
giant. 

He  was  a  pensive,  brooding,  silent  man.  He  rarely  made  mani- 
fest any  especial  individuality  in  dealing  either  with  the  citizens, 
or  with  his  own  soldiers.  If  he  said  yes  or  no,  it  was  as  though 
a  pyramid  had  uttered  it — the  resolution  was  unalterable.  He 
went  to  war  to  kill,  and  when  this  self-declared  proposition  was 
once  well  impressed  upon  his  followers,  he  referred  to  the  sub- 
ject no  more.  Generally  those  who  fought  him  were  worsted; 
in  a  majority  of  instances  annihilated.  He  was  a  devil  incarnate 
in  battle,  but  had  been  heard  over  and  over  again  to  say:  "If 
I  cared  for  my  life  I  would  have  lost  it  long  ago ;  wanting  to 
lose  it,  I  cannot  throw  it  away."  And  it  would  appear  from 
the  history  of  his  career  up  to  the  time  of  his  death  that  what  in 
most  men  might  have  been  regarded  as  fatalism  was  but  the 
inspiration  of  a  palpable  destiny.  Mortal  bullets  avoided  him. 
At  desperate  odds,  fortune  never  deserted  him.  Surrounded, 
he  could  not  be  captured.  Outnumbered,  he  could  not  be 
crushed.  Surprised,  it  was  impossible  to  demoralize  him.  Baf- 
fled by  adversity,  or  crippled  and  wrought  upon  often  by  the 
elements,  he  wearied  no  more  than  a  plough  that  oxen  pull,  or 
despaired  never  so  much  as  the  granite  mass  the  storms  beat 
upon  and  the  lightnings  strike.  Shot  dead  from  his  saddle  at 
last  in  a  charge  reckless  beyond  all  reason,  none  triumphed  over 
him  a  captive  before  the  work  was  done  of  the  fetters  and  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  327 

rope.  His  body,  however,  remained  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy, 
who  dragged  it  for  some  distance  as  two  mules  might  drag  a 
saw  log,  and  finally  propped  it  up  in  a  picture  gallery  in  Rich- 
mond and  had  pictures  taken  of  the  wan  drawn  face  of  the  dead 
lion  and  his  great  mane  of  a  beard  that  was  full  of  the  dead 
leaves  and  the  dust  of  the  highway. 

Lieutenant  Arch  Clements,  just  turned  of  eighteen,  succeeded 
to  the  command  of  Anderson's  old  company,  and  moved  with  it 
after  the  fight  directly  to  Brunswick,  in  Chariton  county,  where 
he  crossed  the  Missouri  river  and  proceeded  to  the  South. 
Cool-headed,  wary,  vigilant,  and  created  especially  for  a  soldier, 
Clements  had  long  before  given  ample  evidence  of  the  skill  and 
the  dash  that  were  pre-eminently  a  part  of  his  military  char- 
acter. He  wore  in  all  the  fullness  of  its  old  unsparing  propor- 
tions the  mantle  of  Anderson,  and  killed  just  as  thoroughly  and 
as  remorselessly.  South  from  Brunswick  some  three  days* 
march,  Clements  overtook  Capt.  Grooms,  of  Shelby's  brigade, 
who  was  hastening  forward  with  fifty-four  recruits.  Clements 
proposed  to  join  forces  with  Grooms  and  travel  South  together, 
the  one  command  mutually  strengthening  and  giving  support  to 
the  other.  The  Confederates  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  Guerrillas,  and  as  a  consequence  Grooms  and  his  entire 
detachment  were  overwhelmed  arid  cut  to  pieces.  They  fought 
to  the  last  man,  but  they  fought  a  hopeless  battle.  Not  a  sol- 
dier of  the  fifty-four  escaped.  Clements  kept  accurately  the 
number  of  Federals  killed  on  this  trip,  and  an  account  of  the  way 
they  were  killed.  It  was  a  singular  and  a  sanguinary  diary,  and 
read  about  as  follows:  "Shot,  one  hundred  and  fifty-two; 
throats  cut,  twenty ;  hung,  seventy-six ;  shot  and  scalped,  thir- 
ty-three ;  shot  and  mutilated,  eleven.  Grand  total — two  hun- 
dred and  ninety- two."  Every  Federal  killed,  save  and  alone 
those  killed  in  open  fight,  was  made  acquainted  with  the  reason 
why  he  was  slain  after  he  had  surrendered.  Good  or  bad,  the 
reason  was  the  same ;  true  or  untrue,  it  made  none  of  the  vic- 
tims more  content  to  die.  In  Anderson's  command  there  were 
probably  fifty  men  who  had  formed  what  was  known  as  the 
Brotherhood  of  Death.  To  become  a  member  of  it  one  had  to 
swear  that  he  would  avenge  the  killing  of  a  brother  no  matter 
how  killed,  or  when,  or  where.  Each  member  had  also  a  com- 
panion-in-arms upon  whom  the  pact  became  especially  binding, 


328  NOTED  GUEBBILLAS,  OB 

and  who  could,  because  of  the  direct  obligation  thus  imposed, 
make  the  law  that  much  the  more  certain  of  enforcement.  To 
avenge  the  killing  of  Anderson  these  two  hundred  and  ninety- 
,.wo  Federal  soldiers  were  slain  in  all  forms  and  fashions  from 
$he  Missouri  river  to  Red  river,  and  it  was  to  give  them  a  good 
reason  for  cutting  their  throats  or  blowing  out  their  brains  that 
Clements  caused  to  be  related  to  each  of  them  the  history  of 
the  Brotherhood  and  the  obligations  of '  its  organization. 

In  a  personal  altercation  concerning  a  hog,  while  the 
Guerrillas  were  in  camp  on  White  river,  Arkansas,  Dick  West 
shot  Creth  Creek  in  the  mouth,  inflicting  a  severe  yet  not  fatal 
wound.  Creek  recovered,  and  the  difficulty  would  have  been 
renewed,  if  the  collapse  of  the  revolution  and  the  downfall  of 
the  Confederacy  had  not  taught  the  great  mass  of  the  Southern 
combatants  that  it  was  no  time  to  think  of  men,  or  their  per- 
sonal grievances.  In  winter  quarters  at  Sherman,  Texas,  Clem- 
ents rested  from  the  bloody  work  of  1864,  and  waited  impa- 
tiently for  the  spring  of  another  year. 

Todd's  death  fell  upon  the  spirits  of  his  men  as  a  sudden 
bereavement  upon  the  hearts  of  a  happy  and  devoted  family. 
Those  who  mourned  for  him  mourned  all  the  more  tenderly 
because  they  could  not  weep.  Nature,  having  denied  to  them 
the  consolation  of  tears,  left  them  the  infinite  intercourse,  and 
remembrances  of  comradeship  and  soldierly  affection.  The  old 
bands,  however,  were  breaking  up.  Lieut.  George  Shepherd, 
taking  with  him  Matt  Way  man,  John  Maupin,  Theo.  Castle,  Jack 
Kupe,  Silas  King,  James  and  Alfred  Corum,  Bud  Story,  Perry 
Smith,  Jack  Williams,  Jesse  James,  James  and  Arthur  Devers, 
Press  Webb,  John  Norfolk  and  others  to  the  number  of  twenty- 
six,  started  South  to  Texas  on  the  13th  of  November,  1864. 
With  Shepherd  also  were  William  Gregg  and  wife,  Richard  Mad- 
dox  and  wife,  and  James  Hendrix  and  wife— these  ladies  were  just 
as  brave,  and  just  as  devoted,  and  just  as  intrepid  in  peril  or 
extremity  as  the  men  who  marched  with  them  to  guard  them, 
and,  if  needs  be,  to  die  for  them.  Jesse  James  and  Frank 
James  separated  here,  Frank  to  go  to  Kentucky  with  Quantrell, 
and  Jesse  to  follow  the  remnant  of  Todd's  still  organized 
veterans  into  Texas. 

Besides  killing  isolated  squads  of  Federals,  and  making  way 
with  every  individual  militiaman  who  supposed  that  the  roads 

* 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  329 

were  absolutely  safe  for  travelers  because  Gen.  Price  and  his 
army  had  long  been  gone,  Shepherd's  fighting  for  several  days 
was  only  fun.  On  the  22d,  however,  Capt.  Emmet  Goss,  an 
old  acquaintance  of  the  loth  Kansas  Cavalry,  Jennison's,  was 
encountered,  commanding  thirty-two  Jayhawkers.  Of  late 
Goss  had  been  varying  his  orgies  somewhat.  He  would  drink 
to  excess,  and  lavish  his  plunder  and  money  on  ill-featured 
mistresses,  who  were  sometimes  Indians,  sometimes  negresses, 
and  but  rarely  pure  white.  Returning  northward  one  day  from 
Cane  Hill,  in  Arkansas,  he  rode  gaily  along  at  the  head  of 
thirty-two  men  rank  and  file.  He  was  about  thirty-five  years 
old,  square  built,  had  broad  shoulders,  a  swaggering  gait,  stood 
six  feet  when  at  himself  and  erect,  had  red  hair  and  a  bad  eye, 
and  a  face  that  meant  fight  when  cornered — and  desperate  fight 
at  that.  November  22d,  1864,  was  an  autumn  day,  full  of  sun- 
shine and  falling  leaves.  Riding  southward  from  Missouri 
Lieut.  Shepherd  met  Capt.  Goss  riding  northward  from  Cane 
Hill.  Shepherd  had  twenty-six  men  rank  and  file.  It  was  an 
accidental  meeting — one  of  those  sudden,  forlorn,  isolated, 
murderous  meetings  not  rare  during  the  war — a  meeting  of 
outlying  detachments  that  asked  no  quarter  and  gave  none.  It 
took  place  on  Cabin  Creek,  in  the  Cherokee  Nation.  Each 
rank  arrayed  itself  speedily.  There  were  twenty-six  men 
against  thirty-two.  The  odds  were  not  great — indeed  they 
never  had  been  considered  at  all.  There  came  a  charge  and  a 
sudden  and  terrible  storm  of  revolver  bullets.  Nothing  so 
weak  as  the  Kansas  detachment  could  possibly  live  before  the 
deadly  prowess  and  pistol  practice  of  the  Missourians.  Of  the 
thirty-two,  twenty-nine  were  killed.  One,  riding  a  magnificent 
race  horse,  escaped  on  the  wings  of  the  wind — one,  a  negro 
barber,  was  taken  along  to  wait  upon  the  Guerrillas,  and  the 
third,  a  poor,  emaciated  skeleton,  as  good  as  dead  of  con- 
sumption, was  permitted  to  ride  still  away  northward,  bearing 
the  story  of  the  thunderbolt.  Among  the  Missourians  four 
were  killed.  In  the  mdee  Jesse  James  encountered  Goss  and 
singled  him  out  from  all  the  press.  As  James  bore  down  upon 
him,  he  found  that  his  horse,  an  extremely  high-spirited  and 
powerful  one,  had  taken  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and  was  perfectly 
unmanageable.  Besides,  his  left  arm  being  yet  weak  from  a 
scarcely  healed  wound,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  control  his 


330  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

horse,  or  even  to  guide  him.  Pistol  balls  were  as  plentiful 
as  the  leaves  that  were  pattering  down.  James  had,  however, 
to  put  up  his  revolver  as  he  rode,  and  rely  upon  his  right  hand 
to  reinforce  his  left.  Before  he  could  turn  his  horse  and  break 
its  hold  upon  the  bit,  Goss  had  fired  upon  him  four  times. 
Close  upon  him  at  last  James  shot  him  through  and  through. 
Goss  swayed  heavily  in  his  saddle,  but  held  on.  ''Will  you 
surrender?"  Jesse  asked,  recocking  his  pistol  and  presenting  it 
again.  "Never!"  was  the  stern  reply,  Goss  still  reeling  in  the 
saddle  and  bleeding  deathfully.  When  the  blue-white  smoke 
curled  up  again  there  was  a  riderless  steed  among  the  trees  and 
a  guilty  spirit  somewhere  out  in  the  darkness  of  the  unknown. 
It  took  two  dragoon  revolver  bullets  to  finish  this  one,  and  yet 
James  was  not  satisfied  with  his  work.  There  was  a  preacher 
along  who  also  had  sat  himself  steadfast  in  his  saddle,  and  had 
fought  as  the  best  of  them  did.  James  rode  straight  at  him 
after  he  had  finished  Goss.  The  parson's  heart  failed  him 
at  last,  however,  and  he  started  to  run.  James  gained  upon 
him  at  every  step.  When  close  enough  for  a  shot,  he  called 
out  to  him:  "Turn  about  like  a  man,  that  I  may  not  shoot 
you  in  the  back."  The  Jayhawker  turned,  and  his  face  was 
white  and  his  tongue  was  voluble.  "Don't  shoot  me,"  he 
pleaded;  "I  am  the  chaplain  of  the  Thirteenth  Kansas;  my 
name  is  U.  P.  Gardner ;  I  have  killed  no  man,  but  have  prayed 
for  many ;  spare  me."  James  did  not  answer.  Perhaps  he  turned 
away  his  head  a  little  as  he  threw  out  his  pistol.  When  the 
smoke  lifted,  Gardner  was  dead  upon  the  crisp,  sere  grass  with 
a  bullet  through  his  brain.  Maddox  in  this  fight  killed  three  of 
Goss'  men,  Gregg  five,  Press  Webb  three,  Wayman  four, 
Hendrix  three,  and  others  one  or  two  each. 

The  march  through  the  Indian  country  was  one  long  stretch 
of  ambushments  and  skirmishes.  Way  man  stirred  up  a  hornet's 
nest  late  one  afternoon,  and  though  stung  himself  twice  quite 
severely,  he  killed  four  Indians  in  single  couibat  and  wounded 
the  fifth  who  escaped.  Press  Webb,  hunting  the  same  day  for  a 
horse,  was  ambushed  by  three  Pins  and  wounded  slightly  in  the 
arm.  He  charged  single-handed  into  the  brush  and  was  shot 
again  before  he  got  out  of  it,  but  he  killed  the  three  Indians  and 
captured  three  excellent  ponies,  a  veritable  God-send  to  all. 
The  next  day  about  noon  the  rear-guard,  composed  of  Jesse 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  331 

James,  Bud  Story,  Harrison  Trow,  and  Jack  Rupe  was  savagely 
attacked  by  seventy-five  Federal  Cherokees  and  driven  back 
upon  the  main  body  rapidly.  Shepherd,  one  of  the  quickest  and 
keenest  soldiers  the  war  produced,  had  formed  every  man  of  the 
command  in  the  rear  of  an  open  field  through  which  the  enemy 
must  advance  and  over  which  in  return  a  telling  charge  could 
be  made.  The  three  heroic  women,  mounted  on  excellent 
horses  and  given  shelter  in  some  timber  still  further  to  the  rear 
of  the  Guerrilla  line,  bade  their  husbands  as  they  kissed  them 
fight  to  the  death  or  conquer.  The  Indians  bore  down  as  if 
they  meant  to  ride  down  a  regiment.  Firing  their  pistols  into 
their  very  faces  with  deadly  effect,  the  rear  guard  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  stopping  them  a  single  second ;  but  when  in  the 
counter-charge  Shepherd  dashed  at  the  on-coming  line,  it  melted 
away  as  snow  in  a  thaw.  Shepherd,  Maddox,  Gregg,  the  two 
Corums,  Rupe,  Story,  James,  Hendrix,  Webb,  Smith,  Com- 
mons, Castle,  Way  man,  and  King  fought  like  men  who  wanted 
to  make  a  clean  sweep  and  a  merciless  one.  John  Maupin,  not 
yet  well  from  the  two  ugly  wounds  received  the  day  Anderson 
was  killed,  insisted  on  riding  in  the  charge,  and  was  shot  the 
third  time  by  an  Indian  whom  he  had  put  two  balls  into,  and 
whose  horse  he  rushed  up  to  secure.  Jesse  James  had  his  horse 
killed,  and  a  pistol  shot  from  his  hand.  Several  other  Guer- 
rillas were  wounded,  but  none  killed,  and  Williams,  James 
Corum,  and  Maddox  lost  horses.  Of  the  sixty-five  Indians  fifty- 
two  were  counted,  killed,  while  some,  known  to  be  wounded, 
dragged  themselves  off  into  the  mountain  and  escaped. 

At  Sherman,  Texas,  which  was  reached  on  the  second 
of  December,  Lieutenant  Shepherd  disbanded  his  men,  taking  a 
portion  of  them  into  Western  Texas,  while  Jesse  Jamee,  John 
Maupin,  Theo.  Castle,  Jack  Rupe,  Bud  Story,  Silas  King,  Perry 
Smith,  and  James  Commons  remained  to  take  service  with  Clem- 
ents and  the  remainder  of  Anderson's  Guerrillas.  While  romp- 
ing one  day  in  the  camp  near  Sherman,  Silas  King's  pistol  was 
accidentally  discharged,  killing  Perry  Smith,  a  splendid  young 
soldier  who  had  gone  through  unharmed  the  crisis  of  many  a 
stubborn  combat.  Such  deep  grief  came  to  King,  however, 
and  such  had  been  his  love  for  the  young  Guerrilla,  that  a 
mortal  sickness  fell  upon  him,  and  he  died  of  a  fever  in  two 
weeks  afterwards.  King  was  from  Clay  county,  Missouri, 


332  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

and  was  buried  by  Adam  Yocum,  of  Fannin  county,  Texas. 
On  the  first  of  March,  1875,  Captain  Clements — having  been 
reinforced  by  ten  men  under  the  command  of  Captain  David 
p00le — marched  from  Sherman  to  Mt.  Pleasant,  Titus  county ; 
and  from  Mt.  Pleasant,  on  the  fourteenth  of  April,  the  march 
began  once  more  and  for  the  last  time  into  Missouri.  The  spring 
of  1865  was  known  as  the  spring  of  the  rain  storms.  Water  was 
everywhere.  The  lowlands  were  lakes ;  the  high  lands  a  swamp. 
In  all  directions  rivers  overflowed.  Military  expeditions,  ready 
for  service  since  the  breaking  up  of  winter,  could  not  move 
because  they  were  not  amphibious.  Where  the  Guerrillas  could 
not  find  dry  land,  they  waded ;  where  they  could  not  find  shal- 
low water  they  swam.  At  the  crossing  of  the  Sulphur  river, 
near  Clarksville,  Texas,  Charles  Hammons,  from  Lexington, 
Missouri,  a  brave  young  soldier,  was  drowned.  At  Clarksville  a 
soldier  named  Jackson,  who  belonged  to  Shelby's  brigade,  and 
who  had  been  imprisoned  for  killing  a  Texas  militiaman,  was 
rescued  by  Poole,  Press  Webb,  and  Jesse  James,  and  sent  to  his 
command,  well  mounted  and  armed.  On  the  sixteenth  of 
April,  a  reorganization  was  had.  One  company  of  eighty  men 
elected  Arch  Clements  captain,  James  Anderson — brother  of  the 
famous  Guerrilla — first  lieutenant,  and  James  Sanders,  orderly 
sergeant.  The  other  company,  likewise  eighty  strong,  elected 
David  Poole  captain,  Wm.  Greenwood  first  lieutenant,  and  Lon 
Railey  orderly  sergeant.  The  first  game  consisted  of  three 
Indians  who  fired  on  the  advance  just  after  it  had  emerged  from 
the  swimming  waters  of  the  Arkansas  river,  were  ridden  over  by 
James  and  Clements  and  killed.  Forming  an  advance  of  David 
Poole,  John  Poole,  John  Maupin,  Jack  Bishop,  Theo.  Castle, 
Jesse  Ja,mes  and  Press  Webb,  Clements  pushed  on  rapidly,  killing 
five  militia  in  one  squad,  ten  in  another,  here  and  there  a  single 
one,  and  now  and  then  as  many  together  as  twenty.  In  Benton 
county,  Missouri,  a  Federal  militiaman  was  captured  named 
Harkness  who  had  killed  a  brother  of  Clements  and  burnt  the 
house  of  his  mother.  James,  Maupin,  and  Castle  held  Hark- 
ness tightly  while  Clements  cut  his  throat  and  afterwards  scalped 
him.  At  Kingsville,  in  Johnson  county,  something  of  a  skir- 
mish was  had,  and  ten  Federals  were  killed.  A  militiaman 
named  Duncan  was  also  captured  at  the  same  time  who  had  a 
bad  name  locally,  and  who  was  described  as  being  a  highwayman 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  333 

and  a  house  burner.  Fifty-five  years  of  age  and  gray-headed, 
neither  one  nor  the  other  saved  him.  But  before  the  old  man 
surrendered  he  fought  a  desperate  fight.  Knowing  instinctively 
what  his  fate  would  be  if  he  fell  alive  into  the  hands  of  any  hos- 
tile organization,  much  less  a  Guerrilla  organization,  he  took  a 
stand  behind  a  plank  fence,  armed  with  a  Spencer  rifle  and  two 
revolvers,  and  faced  the  enemy,  now  close  upon  him.  Arch 
Clements,  Jesse  James,  and  Jack  Bishop  dashed  at  Duncan. 
The  first  shot  killed  Bishop's  horse,  and  in  falling  the  horse  fell 
upon  the  rider.  At  the  second  fire  Clements'  horse  was  also 
killed,  but  James  stopped  neither  for  the  deadly  aim  of  the  old 
man  nor  for  the  help  of  his  comrades  who  were  coming  up  as 
fast  as  they  could  on  foot.  He  shot  him  three  times  before  he 
knocked  him  from  his  feet  to  his  knees,  but  the  fourth  shot — 
striking  him  fair  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead — finished  the  old 
man  and  all  of  his  sins  together. 

On  the  fourteenth  a  council  was  held  among  the  Guerrillas  to 
discuss  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  surrender.  Virtually  the  war  was 
over.  Everywhere  the  regular  Confederate  armies  had  surren- 
dered and  disbanded,  and  in  no  direction  could  any  evidences  be 
discovered  of  that  Guerrilla  warfare  which  many  predicted  would 
succeed  to  the  war  of  the  regular  army  and  the  general  order. 
All  decided  to  do  as  the  rest  of  the  Southern  forces  had  done, 
except  Clements,  Anderson,  John  and  Thomas  Maupin,  Jack 
Bishop,  Jesse  James,  Theo.  Castle,  John  Chatman,  Capt.  Kelly, 
Joshua  Esters,  and  Samuel  Wade.  These  would  go  to  Mexico 
with  Shelby  and  espouse  either  Juarez  or  Maximilian,  but  they 
would  never  surrender.  Anxious,  however,  to  give  to  those  of 
the  command  who  preferred  a  contrary  course  the  dignity  and 
the  formality  of  official  authority,  Captain  Clements  entered 
Lexington  on  the  fifteenth  with  Jesse  James,  Jesse  Hamlet,  Jack 
Rupe,  Willis  King,  and  John  Vanmeter,  and  bearing  a  flag  of 
truce.  The  provost  marshal  of  Lexington,  Major  J.  B.  Rodgers, 
was  a  liberal  officer  of  the  old  regime,  who  understood  in  its  full- 
est and  broadest  sense  that  the  war  was  over,  and  that  however 
cruel  or  desperate  certain  organizations  or  certain  bodies  of 
men  had  been  in  the  past,  all  proscription  of  them  ceased  with 
their  surrender. 

As  Clements  marched  back  from  Lexington,  Jesse  James,  still 
riding  at  the  head  of  the  column  with  the  white  flag,  eight  Fed- 


334  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

eral  soldiers  were  met  who  were  drunk,  and  who,  either  did  not 
see  the  truce  flag  or  did  not  regard  it.  They  fired  point  blank 
at  the  Guerrillas,  and  were  charged  in  turn  and  routed  with  the 
loss  of  four  killed  and  two  wounded.  These  eight,  however, 
were  but  the  advance  of  a  larger  party  of  sixty,  thirty  Johnson 
county  militia,  and  thirty  of  the  2d  Wisconsin  Cavalry.  These, 
in  the  counter  attack,  drove  back  the  Guerrillas  and  followed 
them  fiercely — especially  the  2d  Wisconsin.  Vanmeter's  horse 
was  killed,  but  Jack  Rupe  stopped  under  fire  for  him  and  carried 
him  out  in  safety.  James  and  Clements,  though  riding  jaded 
horses — the  same  horses,  in  fact,  which  had  made  the  long  inhospi- 
table trip  up  from  Texas — galloped  steadily  away  in  retreat  side 
by  side,  and  fighting  as  best  they  could.  Mounted  on  a  superb 
black  horse,  a  single  Wisconsin  trooper  dashed  ahead  of  the 
balance  and  closed  in  swiftly  upon  James,  who  halted  to  court 
the  encounter.  At  the  distance  of  ten  feet  both  fired  simultane- 
ously, and  when  the  smoke  cleared  away  the  brave  Wisconsin 
man  was  dead  with  a  dragoon  revolver  ball  through  his  heart. 
Scarcely  had  this  combat  closed,  however,  before  another  Wis- 
consin trooper,  equally  as  resolute  as  his  stricken  comrade, 
rushed  at  James,  firing  rapidly,  and  closing  in  as  he  fired. 
James  killed  his  horse,  and  the  Federal  in  turn  sent  a  pistol 
bull  through  Jame  s'  right  lung,  the  same  lung  that  had  before 
been  so  severely  wounded.  Then  the  rush  passed  over  and 
beyond  him.  Another  volley  killed  his  horse,  and  as  the 
Johnson  county  militia  galloped  by,  five  fired  at  -him  as  he  lay 
bleeding  under  the  prostrate  animal.  Clements,  seeing  horse 
and  rider  go  down  together,  believed  his  beloved  comrade  was 
killed,  and  strove  thereafter  to  make  good  his  own  escape. 
Extricating  himself  with  infinite  toil  and  pain,  Jesse  James  left 
the  road  for.  the  woods,  pursued  by  five  Federals,  who  fired  at 
him  constantly  as  they  followed.  At  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
yards  he  killed  the  foremost  Federal  and  halted  long  enough 
under  fire  to  disencumber  himself  of  his  heavy  cavalry  boots, 
one  of  which  was  a  quarter  full  of  blood.  He  fired  again  and 
shattered  the  pi  stol  arm  of  the  second  pursuer,  the  other  three 
closing  up  and  pressing  the  maimed  Guerrilla  as  ravenous 
hounds  the  torn  flanks  of  a  crippled  stag.  James  was  getting 
weaker  and  weaker.  The  foremost  of  the  three  pursuers  could 
be  heard  distinctly  yelling:  "Oh!  g — dd — n  your  little  soul, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  335 

we  have  you  at  last!  Stop,  and  be  killed  like  a  gentleman!" 
James  did  not  reply,  but  when  he  attempted  to  lift  his  trusty 
dragoon  pistol  to  halt  the  nearest  trooper,  he  found  it  too  heavy 
for  his  hand.  But  reinforcing  his  right  arm  with  his  left,  he 
fired  finally  at  the  Wisconsin  man  almost  upon  him  and  killed 
him  in  the  saddle.  Perhaps  then  and  there  an  end  might  have 
been  made  to  co  me  to  the  career  of  the  desperate  Guerrilla  if 
the  two  remaining  pursuers  had  been  "Wisconsin  cavalry  instead 
of  Johnson  county  militia ;  but  terri  fied  at  the  prowess  of  one 
who  had  been  so  terribly  wounded,  and  who  killed  even  as  he 
reeled  along,  the  militiamen  abandoned  the  chase,  and  James, 
staggering  on  four  or  five  hundred  yards  further,  fell  upon  the 
edge  of  a  creek  and  fainted.  From  the  15th  to  the  17th  he  lay 
alongside  the  water,  bathing  his  wound  continually  and  drinking 
vast  quantities  of  it  to  quench  his  burning  fever.  Towards 
sunset,  on  the  evening  of  the  17th,  he  crawled  to  a  field  where 
a  man  was  plowing,  who  proved  to  be  a  Southern  man  and  a 
friend.  That  night  he  rode  fifteen  miles  to  the  house  of  a  Mr. 
Bowman,  held  upon  a  horse  by  his  new-found  friend,  where  he 
remained,  waited  upon  by  Clements  and  Rupe,  until  the  sur- 
render of  Poole,  on  the  21st,  with  one  hundred  and  twenty-nine 
Guerrillas.  Major  Rodgers  was  so  well  satisfied  that  James 
would  die  that  he  thought  it  unnecessary  to  parole  him,  and  so 
declared.  To  give  him  every  chance,  however,  for  his  life,  and 
to  enable  him  to  reach  his  mother — then  a  fugitive  in  Nebraska 
— Rodgers  furnished  him  with  transportation,  money,  and  a 
puss.  While  awaiting  a  steamboat  at  Lexington,  James  became 
acquainted  with  the  soldier  who  had  shot  him — John  E.  Jones, 
Company  E.,  2d  Wisconsin  Cavalry.  They  exchanged  photo- 
graphs, became  fast  friends,  and  separated  mutually  satisfied 
with  each  other's  prowess.  The  end  of  the  war  had  come  for 
the  wounded  Guerrilla,  but  not  the  end  of  his  battles  or  his 
besetments.  Recovering  slowly — so  slowly,  in  fact,  that  it  was 
three  years  before  he  could  back  a  horse  or  fire  a  pistol — he 
lives  to-day  in  the  full  strength  of  a  splendid  physical  manhood, 
an  outlaw,  yet  an  innocent  and  persecuted  man,  covered  with 
the  scars  of  twenty-two  wounds  and  as  desperate  and  as  un- 
daunted as  though  there  was  still  war  in  the  land  and  he  a 
soldier  in  the  thick  of  it. 

Capt.  Arch  Clements  would  not  surrender  when  Poole  and  his 


336  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

men  did,  nor  would  James  Anderson,  Joshua  Esters,  Sam  Wade, 
Samuel  Brooks,  John  and  Thomas  Maupin,  Theo.  Castle,  Jack 
Bishop,  John  Chatman  and  Capt.  Kelley.  Many  of  these  pre- 
ferred to  fight  to  the  death,  and  others  to  leave  the  country. 
Esters,  Wade  and  Brooks  crossred  over  into  Clay  county,  en 
route  to  British  Columbia,  when  Esters  and  Wade  were  killed, 
and  Brooks  wounded  and  captured.  His  extreme  youth  saved  his 
life — being  only  seventeen,  and  looking  much  younger.  Esters 
and  Wade  fought  to  the  death.  Surrounded  by  sixty  militia, 
they  killed  six  and  wounded  four. 

Clements,  pushing  boldly  in  the  direction  of  Howard  county 
from  Lafayette,  acted  just  as  though  the  war  was  still  in 
progress  and  that  it  was  a  part  of  his  military  duty  to  fight  and 
kill  as  formerly.  A  heavy  rain  fell  upon  the  -Guerrillas,  the 
roads  from  being  bad  had  become  to  be  dreadful,  and  a  strong 
detachment  of  Federals  struck  this  last  of  a  once  terrible  organ- 
ization and  killed  Thomas  Maupin,  Theo.  Castle,  John  Chatman 
and  Capt.  Kelley.  Kelley  was  a  maimed  Confederate  soldier, 
whose  arm  had  been  shot  off  at  Vicksburg.  John  Maupin  was 
badly  wounded  at  the  same  time,  but  escaped.  After  this  fight, 
in  which  two  hundred  militia  were  engaged,  all  the  balance  of 
the  Guerrillas  surrendered  except  Clements  and  Anderson.  In 
the  fall  of  1865  these  two  went  to  Texas,  but  Clements  returned 
to  Missouri,  and  on  December  13,  1866,  was  killed  in  Lexington. 

But  before  all  this  disintegration  and  falling  to  pieces,  much 
desperate  and  isolated  fighting  and  killing  had  been  done.  Fletch 
Taylor  believed  he  had  a  special  mission  to  perform  during  the 
war,  and  he  performed  it  to  the  letter,  despite  of  wounds,  muti- 
lation, tne  constantly  increasing  odds  he  had  to  encounter  and 
the  difficulty  of  making  head  way  or  even  holding  his  own  as  the 
strife  went  on.  This  mission,  practically  summed  up,  was 
simply  to  fight.  He  fought  anywhere ;  he  fought  always ;  he 
fought  man  to  man  or  one  against  ten ;  he  fought  at  all  hours 
and  in  all  weathers ;  he  fought  as  well  with  one  arm  as  with  two ; 
he  fought  to  kill.  Low,  square  about  the  jaws,  the  brow  broad, 
the  eyes  prominent,  the  limbs  rounded  and  heavily  girt  around 
with  muscles,  the  chest  and  shoulders  massive,  tireless  in 
energy,  and  with  immense  nervous  power,  Taylor  roamed  per- 
petually at  the  head  of  a  score  of  followers  equally  as  intrepid 
as  himself  and  as  enterprising. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  337 

After  the  fight  at  Ridgely,  in  Platte  county,  Capt.  Taylor 
entered  Lafayette  in  company  with  Anderson  and  did  some 
hazardous  duty  for  him  in  the  way  of  picketing  the  roads  while 
Anderson's  men  procured  horses,  moulded  bullets,  and  prepared 
themselves  generally  for  a  savage  forward  movement.  John 
Hope,  Nat.  Tigue,  Newton  Oliiant,  Gooly  Robertson,  Press 
Fugitt,  John  Fisher  and  McMacane  were  the  seven  men  Taylor 
took  with  him  from  Lafayette  and  re-crossed  into  Clay.  There 
was  to  be  a  season  of  desperate  Guerrilla  work,  and  to  do  this 
work  who  were  so  well  fitted  as  the  old  instruments?  Where 
were  Jesse  and  Frank  James,  and  those  of  their  ow  n  immediate 
comrades  who  came  as  they  came  and  went  as  they  went?  Capt. 
Taylor  would  know  for  himself.  Every  man  of  his  following 
was  dressed  as  a  Federal.  From  tasseled  hat  to  spurred  cav- 
alry boots,  the  whole  ensemble  was  perfect.  But  because  of 
their  uniform  they  received  at  Mrs.  Samuels'  scant  kindness  or 
courtesy.  Mrs.  Samuels  had  seen  Taylor  once  in  1863,  and 
briefly  ;  but  disguised  as  he  was  and  as  obnoxious  as  his  clothing 
made  him,  this  unregenerate  Southern  woman — devoted  to  the 
Confederacy  with  all  the  passionate  attachment  of  a  singularly 
strong  and  patriotic  nature — bade  him  find  her  boys  if  he  wanted 
to  find  them  with  arms  in  his  hands.  Taylor  laughed  and  was 
rejoiced  at  a  manifestation  like  this  of  so  much  defiance,  and 
rode  in  his  quest  of  the  Clay  county  Guerrillas  to  the  house  of 
Gilbert  McElvaine.  McElvaine  was  an  old  man  who  feared 
God  much  and  loved  him,  and  who  loved  also  next  to  his 
religion  Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Southern  Confederacy.  He  fed 
the  Southern  soldier,  brought  news  to  him,  risked  fifty  times 
over  his  old  gray  head  for  him,  prayed  for  him  as  a  patriarch 
of  the  days  of  David,  and  kept  thus  because  of  it  all  a  conscience 
clean  and  a  lamp  ready  trimmed  for  the  final  coming.  At  Jesse 
Cole's,  Taylor  was  joined  by  Jesse  James,  Oil  Shepherd,  Frank 
James,  Peyton  Long,  Theo.  Castle,  Allen  Farmer,  Dock  Rupe, 
Silas  King  and  James  Commons.  Mr.  Cole  was  a  Union  man, 
an  uncle  of  the  James  brothers,  but  a  just  and  upright  citizen. 
As  Captain  Moses,  of  the  2d  Colorado,  Taylor  had  established 
most  gratifying  social  relations  with  Mr.  Cole.  In  a  walk  of  a 
morning  or  a  talk  in  the  twilight  he 

"  had  praised  the  kine, 
The  clover's  reach  and  the  meadow's  fine, 
And  so  made  the  'Squire  his  friend  forever." 
22 


338  NOTED  GUERRILLAS  OR, 

An  exhibition  something  in  the  nature  of  a  school  exhibition 
was  being  held  at  Mt.  Gilead  church,  in  the  upper  part  of  Clay 
county,  and  Taylor  believed  something  in  the  way  of  game 
worthy  of  being  trapped  and  slain  might  be  found  there  or 
prowling  about  in  the  neighborhood.  A  rapid  night  march  from 
Cole's  left  him  at  daylight  within  a  mile  of  the  church,  where 
he  halted  in  the  timber  and  hid  himself.  Taking,  after  a  brief 
rest,  seven  men  with  him  of  his  twenty — Frank  James,  Peyton 
Long,  McMacane,  Jesse  James,  Theo.  Castle,  Allen  Farmer, 
and  John  Hope — Captain  Taylor  surrounded  the  church  in 
search  of  an  enemy,  but  found  none — not  even  a  straggling 
militiaman  in  citizen's  dress. 

The  next  day  two  brothers,  Captain  and  Lieutenant  Bigelow, 
were  killed.  These  men  commanded  a  militia  company  of  sinister 
local  reputation.  They  lived  near  the  line  separating  Clinton 
and  Clay  counties,  and  in  the  northeastern  part  of  Clay.  Many 
bad  things  had  been  done  by  the  men  they  commanded,  and 
some  cruel  and  murderous  things.  Taylor  surrounded  their 
dwelling-house  about  noon  and  demanded  a  surrender  on  the 
part  of  the  brothers  who  were  within.  Peremptorily  refusing 
this,  a  fight  began  instantly.  The  brothers — unsupported  and 
outnumbered — fought  to  the  death.  The  house  sheltered  them 
much,  and  they  were  otherwise  cool,  dangerous,  athletic  men. 
John  Hope  was  wounded  and  his  horse  killed,  James  Commons 
lost  his  horse  as  he  stood  up  in  the  saddle  and  sought  to  shoot 
through  a  window.  Castle  was  also  wounded  slightly,  and 
Jesse  James  painfully  in  the  left  arm.  Taylor  ordered  a  charge. 
Bursting  down  doors  and  breaking  away  all  obstructions,  the 
Guerrillas  ended  the  combat  with  one  furious  rush.  Frank 
James  killed  Captain  Bigelow  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  steps, 
and  Jesse  James,  wounded  as  he  was,  followed  the  Lieutenant 
into  a  lumber  room  and  shot  him  there,  defending  himself  des- 
perately with  a  piece  of  a  bedstead. 

This  savage  episode  aroused  the  country  from  Liberty  to  St. 
Joseph,  the  militia  began  to  swarm,  and  the  regular  troops  to 
put  themselves  in  motion.  Captain  Taylor  chose  as  a  camping 
place  a  spot  somewhat  difficult  of  approach,  and  some  little  dis- 
tance away  from  the  more  frequented  lines  of  travel.  Here  he 
crouched  himself  awaiting  an  opportunity  for  another  spring. 
Peyton  Long,  Jesse  James,  Allen  Parmer,  Oil  Shepherd,  Frank 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER         339 

James  and  Theo.  Castle,  sent  various  ways  to  encounter  the 
enemy  and  bring  tidings  of  his  operations,  met  by  appointment 
at  a  church  on  Clear  Fork  and  attended  divine  services  in  a  body. 
Perhaps  there  was  more  bravado  than  piety  in  this ;  certainly 
more  curiosity  than  religion.  They  talked  long  to  the  girls  there, 
renewed  some  old  acquaintances,  heard  by  signs  and  signals 
some  news  it  would  be  of  advantage  for  Taylor  to  know,  and 
rode  away  into  the  brush  after  lingering  late  and  leaving  with 
reluctance.  Busy  people  and  unfriendly  as  well,  made  haste  to 
hurry  into  Liberty  where  Capt.  John  Younger  commanded,  and 
tell  the  tale  of  the  terrible  Guerrillas.  Younger  belonged  to 
the  county  and  was  a  cruel,  bold,  unscrupulous,  unforgiving 
man.  When  he  had  the  numbers  he  fought,  and  when  he  had 
the  advantage  he  killed.  The  citizens  feared  him,  and  the  sol- 
diers sought  every  opportunity  to  meet  him  in  combat.  Man  to 
man,  before  a  Guerrilla  attack  he  would  have  lasted  probably  long 
enough  to  fire  a  volley.  Younger,  at  the  head  of  seventy-five 
men,  came  rapidly  out  from  Liberty  when  the  news  was  brought 
to  him,  struck  the  trail  of  the  Guerrillas  at  the  church  and  fol- 
lowed it  up  at  a  gallop.  In  some  timber  near  the  residence  of  a 
Mr.  Duncan  he  found  them  all  asleep  except  Frank  James,  and 
charged  furiously  down  upon  the  helpless  camp.  Luckily  a  high 
fence  was  between  the  laggards  and  the  militia,  or  the  sur- 
prise must  have  been  murderous.  Frank  James  shot 
and  shouted,  and  fought  as  though  he  bore  a  charmed  life. 
Peyton  Long  was  wounded  in  an  arm,  Frank  James  in  a  leg, 
Jesse  James  in  the  face,  while  the  two  Jameses  had  their  horses 
killed,  and  Shepherd  and  Parmer  theirs  captured.  •  If  Younger 
lost  a  man  it  was  not  known  among  the  Guerrillas. 

Three  days  afterward,  while  scouting  well  down  towards  Mis- 
souri City,  Silas  King,  Oil  Shepherd,  Dock  Rupe,  Nat  Tigue, 
and  Press  Fugitt  were  overtaken  at  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Ander- 
son by  seventy-five  Federals  and  furiously  attacked.  A  run- 
ning fight  of  seven  miles  ended  in  the  killing  of  Fugitt  and  six 
of  the  pursuing  column.  It  was  not  permitted  at  that  time  to 
bury  dead  Guerrillas.  Made  wild  animals  by  all  kinds  of  procla- 
mations and  general  orders,  if  a  citizen  succored  one  of  them  he 
was  himself  a  cut-throat,  and  if  he  gave  to  one  of  them  who  was 
dying  or  starving  a  cup  of  water  or  a  crust  of  bread,  he  was  an 
outlaw  who  had  committed  treason.  Fugitt  lay  for  some  little 


340  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

time  where  he  had  fallen.  People  passed  the  corpse  by  on  the 
other  side.  In  the  land  which  he  had  died  for  there  might  not 
at  last  be  found  for  him  a  shallow  grave.  Then  there  rose  up 
an  old  hero,  Mr.  Ryland  Shackelford,  and  went  forth  alone  with 
mattock  and  spade  and  buried  the  dead  man  boldly  and  in  the 
light  of  the  sun.  His  neighbors,  fearing  for  his  life,  besought 
him  to  let  the  dead  Guerrilla  be.  Passers  by  who  knew  him  well 
and  who  had  known  him  long,  saw  him  toiling  at  his  work  and 
bade  him  beware  of  the  fate  the  law  had  decreed  for  Christian 
acts  like  these  or  any  deeds  of  charity.  He  heeded  neither 
friendly  word  nor  token.  He  dug  the  grave  both  deep  and 
wide,  and  he  placed  therein  and  reverently  the  corpse  that 
neither  had  shroud  nor  coffin.  Perhaps  he  said  a  prayer  over 
the  placid  face  past  all  recognition  of  Pharisee  or  Samaritan,  of 
cowardly  time- server  or  Christian  man ;  but  be  sure  if  a  prayer 
were  said  the  good  God  heard  it  and  gave  it  heed  against  the 
resurrection  day. 

The  3d  of  July,  1864,  Captain  Taylor  was  at  the  hospitable 
mansion  of  Judge  Levels,  where  a  hearty  welcome  was  alway? 
in  waiting  for  those  who  fought  for  the  South.  Near  the  house 
of  Obadiah  Harris,  a  Union  man,  the  Guerrillas  spent  the  night 
of  the  3d  in  the  timber,  a  rainy,  barren,  tempestuous  night,  and 
returned  to  Harris*  dwelling  in  the  morning  for  breakfast. 
Every  carbine  was  wet,  and  almost  every  revolver  unserviceable. 
While  cleaning  these  and  taking  them  apart  thoroughly  for 
inspection,  an  old  man  named  Bivens,  the  father  of  two  gallant 
boys  who  were  fighting  bravely  under  Joe  Johnston,  hurried  up 
with  the  information  that  a  body  of  Federals  one  hundred  and 
ten  strong  was  at  a  Mr.  Anderson's  only  a  mile  distant,  and  that 
as  he  passed  they  were  making  all  haste  to  get  to  saddle  and 
get  upon  the  road.  Instantly  Spencer  rifles  were  put  together, 
and  dragoon  pistols  made  whole  again.  The  coolest  men  worked 
rapidly,  and  the  most  indifferent  felt  the  need  of  great  expedi- 
tion. It  was  time !  The  arms  of  the  Guerrillas  had  not  been 
loaded  a  dozen  seconds,  nor  had  they  been  in  line  a  greater 
space  themselves  before  the  Federals  were  upon  them,  yelling 
and  shooting.  Taylor  at  a  gallop  made  a  trail  broad  and  good 
for  ten  miles  or  until  he  reached  Fishing  river.  This  stream 
was  fordable,  and  turning  down  where  he  struck  it  and  marching 
down  it  a  few  hundred  yards,  he  crossed  over  where  a  bluff  bank 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  SOU  DEE         341 

on  the  opposite  side  gave  him  the  basis  of  an  ambuscade.  His 
men  were  made  to  dismount  and  tie  their  horses,  none  being 
permitted  to  hold  them.  Frank  James  was  stationed  near  the 
stream  and  especially  charged  to  kill  the  leader  of  the  pursuing 
party,  as  James  was  recognized  as  the  best  and  quickest  pistol 
shot  in  the  command.  Lining  the  bluff  and  ranged  wide  apart, 
the  balance  of  the  Guerrillas  held  themselves  in  readiness  to  fire 
when  Frank  James  should  have  singled  out  and  dispatched  the 
victim  accorded  to  him. 

In  tolerable  array,  considering  the  long  chase  and  the  heavy 
roads,  the  Federal  column  followed  right  on.  It  did  not  halt  at 
the  crossing,  nor  send  a  single  skirmisher  forward  to  penetrate 
the  woods  beyond  and  develop  the  unknown  the  forbidding 
bluff  seemed  to  foreshadow.  At  sixty  feet  from  the  ambush 
Frank  James  fired  at  the  man  leading  the  column  and  killed 
him.  It  was  Sergeant  Kirby,  instead  of  Capt.  Kemper,  the 
ranking  officer ;  but  he  tired  again  and  brought  Kemper  down 
with  a  severe  wound.  Then  the  Guerrillas,  crouched  along  the 
crest  of  the  bluff,  poured  into  the  demoralized  and  affrighted 
Federal  mass  half  way  up  from  the  river  and  at  the  crossing  of 
the  stream  and  along  the  whole  width  of  it,  a  merciless  and 
unbroken  fire.  Sixteen  were  killed  and  twenty-two  more  or 
less  severely  wounded.  Panic  succeeded  to  surprise,  and  flight 
to  panic.  Those  mounted  the  best  escaped  soonest  beyond 
range.  As  a  great  crowd  of  fleeing  fugitives — hatless,  without 
array,  heeding  no  orders  if  indeed  any  orders  were  given — the 
mass  forced  its  way  as  best  it  could  back  from  the  stream  and 
then  on  towards  Liberty,  pdl  mell,  and  throwing  away  arms  and 
accoutrements  at  every  fresh  alarm.  Taylor  pursued  scarcely  a 
mile.  His  horses  were  of  more  value  to  him  than  the  lives  of  a 
dozen  or  so  additional  militia.  It  was  not  at  all  necesmry  to 
catch  the  enemy  in  order  to  inflict  punishment  upon  him,  for  if 
all  signs  did  not  fail  he  would  only  be  required  to  remain  a  day 
or  two  in  any  given  place  to  have  about  him  as  many  as  he 
could  conveniently  accommodate. 

Capt.  Kemper' s  intention  had  been  twofold  in  the  commence- 
inc  ,it  of  his  expedition:  first,  to  extirpate  Taylor's  audacious 
band  of  Guerrillas,  and,  second,  to  visit  a  most  hospitable 
Union  man  named  Gordon  and  eat  a  national  dinner.  The  4th 
of  July  cauie,  and  a  company  also;  but  not  the  company  which 


342  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

was  expected,  nor  Gordon's  guest  in  particular,  Captain 
Kemper.  The  host,  too  well-bred  to  betray  surprise  when 
Taylor  rode  up  with  his  command,  marred  in  no  manner  the 
excellence  of  the  feast  by  stint,  or  scowl,  or  niggardly 
behavior.  He  served  the  wine  in  a  generous  fashion,  listened 
gravely  to  the  story  of  the  morning's  fight,  neither  said  yea  nor 
nay  when  the  tale  was  finished,  and  bade  his  guests  goodbye  in 
a  stirrup  cup  that  might  have  warmed  again  into  flowing  the 
blood  of  some  of  the  dead  men  down  on  the  Fishing  river. 

Col.  Thornton,  recruiting  here  and  there  through  various 
counties,  was  now  in  Platte,  arraying  a  formidable  following. 
Thither  Taylor  went,  increasing  his  command  from  twenty  to 
fifty  within  a  few  days.  Scarcely  any  member  of  his  company 
was  older  than  twenty-one  years.  Beardless  boys  they  were, 
veritable  devils  to  fight  and  to  ride,  and  rapacious  as  Bedouins 
for  air  and  exercise.  Young  soldiers  for  certain  services  are 
superior  to  old  ones.  The  young  soldier  excels  in  deeds  of 
desperation.  He  stands  killing  superbly.  An  intrepid  leader 
can  carry  him  anywhere.  He  is  tireless,  energetic,  irresistible 
in  attack,  impa':ent  of  restraint,  careless  in  the  presence  of 
danger,  often  surprised,  not  always  obedient,  but  in  a  crisis  and 
brought  face  to  face  with  absolute  death,  he  fights  furiously  to 
the  last.  He  knows  nothing  of  hygiene,  while  the  old  soldier, 
properly  trained,  looks  upon  cleanliness  as  next  of  kin  to 
godliness.  He  is  not  so  steady  in  the  face  of  a  pitiless  pursuit 
as  his  older  comrade,  he  does  not  rally  so  quick,  he  cannot  hold 
himself  so  still  under  a  fire  which,  while  it  distresses  him  sorely 
is  too  remote  to  be  silenced ;  but  for  the  most  of  the  services 
the  Guerrilla  is  called  upon  to  perform,  the  young  man  of 
twenty  is  unsurpassed  for  dash,  cruelty  and  desperation. 

Parkyille,  Platte  county,  was  garrisoned  by  twenty-five  militia, 
who  bore  a  good  name  among  the  citizens  for  fair  dealing,  and 
merciful  conduct.  Otherwise  they  would  have  been  exter- 
minated. Capt.  Taylor  attacked  the  place  at  daylight  and  was 
stubbornly  resisted.  Holding  a  stone  house  impervious  to  pistol 
balls,  the  Guerrillas  to  succeed  had  need  to  carry  it  by  assault. 
Oil  Shepherd  shot  the  wife  of  the  captain  of  the  besieged  acci- 
dentally. She  fought  at  her  husband's  side  during  the  few  hot 
moments  preceding  the  assault  and  appeared  more  than  once  at 
a  window  with  a  loaded  gun  which  she  discharged.  The  Guer- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         343 

rillas  cheered  her  every  time  she  showed  herself  and  withheld 
their  fire.  Finally  a  man  occupied  her  place,  and  just  as  Shep- 
herd, who  was  nearest  to  the  window,  shot  at  him  the  woman 
came  again  within  range  arid  received  in  her  bosom  the  ball 
intended  for  another.  Then  began  the  assault  led  by  Taylor 
with  all  the  furious  rush  and  rapidity  of  his  reckless  nature. 
Six  men  manned  a  beam  and  battered  a  door  d(5wn.  Others 
made  the  windows  too  hot  to  be  held  by  the  boldest  of  the 
besieged.  Twenty  Guerrillas,  massed  for  the  effort,  swarmed 
into  the  house  and  swept  its  lower  story  bare  of  defenders  by  a 
single  volley.  Those  above  capitulated.  The  Federal  dead 
numbered  six  and  the  wounded  sixteen.  Taylor's  loss  was 
eleven  wounded.  All  who  fell  alive  into  his  hands  were  honor- 
ably treated  and  generously  paroled.  Those  who  fell,  fell  through 
the  fortunes  of  open  warfare. 

While  the  fight  at  Parkville  was  in  progress  a  characteristic 
tragedy  was  being  enacted  in  another  portion  of  the  county. 
Five  Guerrillas — William  Stone,  John  Thomas,  Hines,  Morehead 
and  Marshfield — were  surrounded  by  fifty  Federals  at  the  house 
of  a  man  named  Bradley,  six  miles  north  of  Platte  City.  The 
five  held  the  house  until  Hines  and  Morehead  were  killed. 
Three  times  they  were  called  upon  to  surrender,  and  three  times 
the  defiant  answer  was  sent  back :  "Come  and  take  us!"  The 
survivors,  their  ammunition  well  nigh  exhausted,  broke  away 
from  the  house  fighting  desperately  and  striving  to  cut  through 
the  enemy  who  encompassed  them.  Thomas  and  Marshfield 
were  killed  in  the  orchard,  riddled  by  musket  balls.  Stone, 
fleet  of  foot  though  encumbered  by  four  heavy  pistols,  gained 
some  timber  to  the  east  of  the  house,  followed  by  three  militia- 
men. He  hid  behind  a  tree  and  killed  the  nearest.  The  two 
others  rushed  upon  him  and  shot  him  down.  Recovering  some- 
what from  the  shock,  and  crawling  barely  to  his  knees,  he  killed 
as  he  crouched  thus  the  surviving  pursuers.  Then  he  fell 
upon  his  face  again,  remaining  there  a  long  time.  The  voices 
of  those  in  search  of  their  comrades  aroused  him  at  last  and 
spurred  him  up  for  a  final  effort.  A  minie  ball  had  gone  through 
his  right  thigh,  and  five  buckshot  into  his  back  and  hips. 
Slow!}7,  however,  and  with  the  grim,  silent,  impurturable  endur- 
ance of  the  bull-dog,  he  dragged  his  maimed  body  forward 
through  the  brush  with  his  hands  and  knees.  He  did  not  know 


344  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

the  coarse  he  was  going,  so  only  he  was  going  away  from  where 
the  three  dead  men  lay,  whose  bodies  were  being  hunted  in 
every  direction.  He  did  not  care  where  he  went  so  only  it  was 
not  back  again  towards  Bradley 's.  Wounded  as  he  was,  and 
weak  as  he  was,  he  still  held  on  to  his  pistols.  Twenty  rounds 
yet  remained  to  him,  and  twenty  rounds  to  a  desperate  man  at 
best  but  little  better  than  mortally  wounded  meant  a  consolation 
almost  equivalent  to  a  rescue.  The  voices  of  men  searching 
carefully  gained  upon  him  as  he  crawled,  gaine  d  rapidly  and  on 
every  hand.  He  reached  a  fence  and  essayed  to  surmount  *it. 
Twice  he  fell  back  exhausted,  his  wounds  burning  as  though  so 
many  hot  pointed  things  had  been  thrust  therein.  Militiamen 
were  in  sight,  coming  straight  towards  him.  He  gathered  in 
his  front  some  pieces  of  rotten  wood,  dry  sticks,  and  such  other 
debris  as  might  go  to  make  a  miserable  barricade,  laid  easily  to 
hand  his  trusty  pistols,  maybe  said  a  prayer  or  two,  and  then 
felt  himself  ready  to  die.  At  this  instant  a  furious  fire  from  the 
direction  of  Bradley's,  a  single  yell,  then  a  series  of  yells,  then 
a  long,  irregular,  zigzag  volley,  halted  as  if  petrified  the  Fed- 
erals almost  upon  Stone,  and  turned  them  about  and  influenced 
them  back  at  the  double-quick.  What  had  happened?  As 
Stone  crawled  and  bled  and  listened  to  the  firing  which  became 
weaker  and  weaker  and  finally  ceased  altogether,  his  mind  kept 
thinking  and  repeating:  What  has  happened? 

This  had  happened:  George  Fielding,  a  young  soldier  of 
Shelby's  old  Brigade,  scarcely  turned  of  nineteen,  wounded, 
and  at  home  on  a  furlough,  knew  and  loved  John  Thomas  in 
boyish  soldier  fashion.  Between  them  had  been  the  fresh  con- 
fidences and  the  artless  comming  lings  of  youth.  They  had 
rode  side  by  side  in  battle.  Together  they  had  shared  the  same 
blankets,  endured  the  same  cheerless  bivouacs,  stood  the  same 
long  picquet  watches,  were  opposites  in  many  things,  and  yet — 
one  supplying  what  the  other  needed — they  drew  thereby  the 
bond  which  united  them  closer  and  closer,  and  made  what  had 
not  been  separated  in  life  in  death  not  disunited. 

Fielding,  in  hearing  of  the  guns  at  Bradley's,  mounted  his 
horse  at  once  and  rode  at  a  run  for  the  point  of  combat.  Ho 
neither  knew  nor  sought  to  understand  the  situation.  He 
neither  drew  rein  nor  slackened  speed  until  he  was  upon  the 
enemy  and  in  the  midst  of  them  fighting  like  some  madman 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  345 

intent  only  upon  being  killed.  He  did  know  that  John 
Thomas  was  surrounded,  outnumbered,  in  imminent  peril,  and 
he  meant  to  reach  him  in  time  to  save  him  or  die  by  his  side. 
It  is  probable  that  this  is  all  he  either  comprehended  or  cared 
to  comprehend.  He  had  to  ride  two  miles  to  bring  him  to  the 
fray,  and  these  were  ridden  like  a  swallow  flies.  While  yet  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  John  Thomas  had  received  five  wounds, 
either  one  of  which  would  have  been  mortal,  but  Fielding  rushed 
right  on,  a  pistol  in  each  hand  and  the  reins  of  the  bridle  in 
his  teeth.  As  he  reached  revolver  range  he  fired  right  and  left 
and  yelled  once,  a  short,  sharp,  singular,  piercing  Guerrilla  yell, 
which  was  answered  by  a  louder  one  of  mockery  and  defiance, 
and  a  scattering  volley.  These  were  the  shots  and  the  shouts 
that  Stone  heard,  crouching  in  his  fence  corner  and  waiting 
before  he  began  to  put  up  his  life  at  auction  the  ten  or  twelve 
more  forward  steps  the  enemy  would  undoubtedly  have  taken, 
had  not  Fielding's  hot  charge  in  the  rear  required  a  concentra- 
tion. There  could  but  one  thing  happen.  Fielding  seemed 
never  to  have  cared  to  retreat.  He  rode  full  tilt  upon  twenty 
Federals  ranged  along  the  yard  fence,  firing  as  fast  as  his  pistols 
would  revolve.  His  horse  was  killed.  Before  the  animal  fell 
he  was  off  of  his  back  on  the  ground,  erect,  unhurt,  and  still 
firing.  He  had  killed  four  of  the  enemy,  as  strange  as  the  story 
may  sound,  and  had  wounded  two  severely,  when  there  was 
another  cooler,  closer,  deadlier  volley,  and  a  furious  rush  from 
every  quarter  to  where  the  dead  rider  lay  by  his  dead  steed,  but 
the  work  had  been  done.  Shot  five  times  and  literally  killed 
as  he  stood  in  the  attitude  of  splendid  defiance,  George  Fielding 
was  past  all  pain  before  his  face  was  upon  the  ground.  Stone 
escaped,  and  lives  to-day  to  tell  of  that  savage  combat  wherein 
six  men  set  upon  by  fifty  fought  until  five  were  killed,  taking  as 
a  recompense  the  lives  of  thirteen  Federals. 

From  Parkville  Capt.  Taylor  moved  suddenly  into  Buchanan 
county.  At  that  time  there  was  operating  in  that  portion  of 
Missouri  a  Colonel  Morrison,  whose  name  and  whose  fame  were 
evil  together.  The  citizens  were  plundered  by  him  indiscrim- 
inately. The  non-combatant  received  only  hurt  at  his  hands. 
Some  Confederate  soldiers  on  recruiting  service  were  captured 
by  him  and  killed.  He  burned,  proscribed,  was  unnecessarily 
cruel,  and  thought  considerably  more  of  how  to  avoid  an  armed 


346  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OR 

enemy  than  to  meet  one  in  open  conflict  and  crush  or  kill  him  there. 
Capt.  Taylor  ended  speedily  that  infamous  career  of  Col.  Mor- 
rison's. Fifty  Guerrillas  at  daylight  surrounded  his  house 
where  sixteen  picked  soldiers  of  his  regiment  not  alone  formed 
his  body-guard  but  his  garrison.  The  house,  prepared  to  stand 
a  siege,  was  as  much  of  a  fortress  as  a  dwelling.  Heavy  fast- 
enings held  the  doors  shut.  Plank  made  the  windows 
impervious  to  musket  balls.  Loop-holes  at  every  angle  gave  to 
its  defenders  a  perpetual  flanking  or  enfilading  fire.  In  its 
cellar  was  a  cistern ;  among  its  supplies  rations  enough  for  any 
reasonable  environment.  Taylor  made  all  these  advantages 
worthless  in  a  moment.  Volunteers  especially  called  for  put 
torches  to  this  demi-redoubt  in  five  places,  losing  in  the  effort 
three  killed  and  eight  wounded.  The  flames  took  hold, 
however;  they  eat  into  the  woodwork;  they  climbed  up  the 
walls ;  they  clambered  along  the  eaves ;  they  caught  in  their 
fierce  embrace  the  whole  mass  of  fortified  doors  and  windows, 
and  then  they  were  in  the  citadel.  As  Morrison's  men  rushed 
out,  some  of  them  afire,  blinded  with  smoke,  or  tortured  to 
madness  with  stifling  heat  and  flame,  they. were  shot  down  as 
rats  are  shot  when  leaving  a  rat-infested  barn.  Morrison 
remained  to  the  last.  When  finally  he  broke  from  his  furnace, 
his  beard  burnt  off  and  his  garments  afire,  he  rushed  through 
the  door  at  which  Jesse  and  Frank  James  and  McMacane  were 
standing  guard.  Frank  James  halted  him  instead  of  shooting 
him,  and  Morrison  replied  with  a  pistol  ball  which  cut  a  black 
feather  from  James'  hat.  Then  a  dozen  Guerrillas  fired  at  the 
singed  and  smoking  apparition  as  it  ran,  and  missed  it  clear. 
Was  it  to  be  over  again  that  wild  bull  rush  of  Bertram 
Risingham? — 

"  And  where  is  Bertram  ?    Soaring  high 
The  general  flame  ascends  the  sky ; 
In  gathered  group  the  soldiers  gaze 
Upon  the  broad  and  roaring  blaze, 
When,  like  infernal  demon  sent, 
Eed  from  his  penal  element, 
To  plague  and  to  pollute  the  air— 
His  face  all  gore,  on  fire  his  hair, 
Forth  from  the  central  mass  of  smoke 
The  giant  form  of  Bertram  broke." 

Morrison  was  gaining  rapidly  upon  his  pursuers  who  were  afoot 


THE   WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  347 

and  firing  defiantly  as  he  ran,  when  Jesse  James — cooler  than 
many  there — hurriedly  mounted  his  horse  and  came  riding  at  a 
gallop  upon  the  track  of  the  doomed  man.  Morrison,  spent 
with  toil  and  speed,  turned  about  and  stood  still.  He  meant  to 
die  in  his  tracks,  and  he  was  dangerous.  Jesse  James  took 
no  note  of  his  attitude,  nor  did  he  wait  a  second  for  any  help 
or  advantage  two  or  three  comrades  at  his  back  might  have 
given  him.  He  dashed  upon  Morrison  single-handed,  fired  at 
him  and  missed.  Morrison  returned  the  fire  and  shot  James' 
horse  in  the  mouth.  James  fired  again  and  struck  his  antag- 
onist just  above  the  right  hip.  As  he  reeled  and  staggered 
from  the  blow,  his  revolver  being  dischared  in  the  air,  James 
shot  again,  sending  this  time  a  bullet  fair  into  Morri- 
son's forehead.  This  ended  the  fight — the  garrison  had  been 
exterminated. 

Colonel  Thornton,  after  having  recruited  three  hundred  men — 
the  nucleus  of  what  might  have  been  made  a  very  formidable 
band — attacked  and  captured  Platte  City  and  its  garrison  of 
militia,  seventy  strong.  Then  he  took  up  his  headquarters  there. 
One  of  his  strange  notions  entertained  at  that  time  was  the 
notion  that  he  commanded  an  army  of  occupation.  He  meant 
to  hold  North  Missouri  and  organize  a  powerful  column  of  Con- 
federates for  active  service  in  his  new  department.  Taylor  came 
to  him  from  Buchanan  county,  preceded  by  the  news  of  the 
savage  blow  dealt  Morrison  and  a  portion  of  Morrison's  unre- 
generate  regiment.  Thornton  proposed  to  Taylor  a  division  of 
honors,  he  retaining  command  of  the  infantry,  while  Taylor  took 
charge  of  the  cavalry.  "  You  have  too  few  men  for  a  regular 
army,  five  hundred  miles  from  a  base  line,"  was  the  reply  of 
the  cool,  keen,  common-sense  Missourian,  "  and  too  many  for 
a  band  of  Guerrillas.  Get  to  the  South  as  soon  as  possible, 
Colonel  Thornton,  or  be  cut  to  pieces  without  hope  of  escape  or 
succor."  Colonel  Thornton  did  not  get  to  the  South.  He 
moved  from  Platte  City  to  Camden  Point,  where  Taylor  left  him. 
Two*  days  afterwards  he  was  attacked  by  four  hundred  Federals 
and  routed,  with  a  loss  of  forty  killed  and  sixt3^-eight  wounded. 
Some  of  his  men  also  scattered  away  from  their  command, 
while  others,  choosing  commanders  for  themselves,  went  to  them 
in  a  body.  John  Thrailkill  and  Joe  Macy  brought  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  splendid  young  fellows  to  Taylor  and  asked  to 


348  NOTED  GUERBILLAS,  Oil 

be  permitted  to  operate  with  him  in  Guerrilla  warfare- 
From  the  Iowa  line  to  Arkansas,  Thrailkill  had  been  run- 
ning and  fighting.  He  was  at  home  wherever  he  camped. 
Wherever  he  found  the  enemy  he  fought  him.  If  he  had  food, 
very  well — he  ate  ;  if  he  had  no  food,  still  very  well — he  did  not 
eat;  if  he  had  blankets  he  used  them,  if  he  had  none  he  did  not 
go  to  bed ;  what  he  understood  by  sleep  was  to  pull  off  his  spurs 
and  unbuckle  his  pistol  belt ;  it  was  night,  it  was  day — no  differ- 
ence to  Thrailkill ;  it  was  stormy,  or  frozen,  or  glorious  sun- 
shiny weather — all  right,  so  only  whatever  the  sort  of  weather 
was  it  was  good  weather  for  hunting  and  finding  the  enemy.  He 
asked  only  to  be  allowed  to  fight,  while  others  were  asking  for 
good  food,  fine  horses,  showy  clothes,  ivory  handled  pistols, 
gaudy  bridles,  McClellan  saddles,  and  city  resting  places  in  the 
winters  in  the  South. 

Jo  Macy  had  the  ear  of  an  Indian  and  the  horsemanship  of  a 
Mexican  bull-fighter.  Educated  on  the  plains,  he  preferred  a 
bed  even  in  the  snow  to  a  pillow  of  down.  He  saw  with  his 
eyes  and  also  with  his  ears.  He  could  listen  to  the  march  of  a 
column  and  tell  to  the  half  of  a  squadron  how  many  ranks  were 
riding  by.  He  fought  superbly  everywhere.  If  a  charge  were 
needed,  Macy  wa -  the  man  to  lead  it ;  if  a  rear  pressed  to  the 
girth  had  to  be  held,  who  so  much  like  a  rock  as  Macy ;  if  a  posi- 
tion was  eminently  in  danger,  the  watch  at  night  had  to  be 
Macy's  watch ;  he  rarely  ever  shot  until  he  knew  he  could  kill ; 
probably  in  his  whole  life  he  was  never  excited  ;  he  did  not  know 
what  surprise  meant ;  the  war  found  him  a  patient,  truthful, 
plain-spoken,  conscientious  man,  and  it  left  him  just  as  it  found 
him,  with  this  addition — he  was  a  hero. 

Taylor,  Thrailkill  and  Macy  entered  Ray  county  from  the  west 
and  raided  it  from  one  end  to  the  other,  killing  on  the  trip  fifty- 
seven  militia  and  securing  horses  sufficient  in  number  for  three 
hundred  recruits  waiting  for  a  mount  before  they  began  their  march 
to  the  Southern  army.  On  their  return  into  Clay  they  halted  a 
day  or  two  at  the  house  of  Richard  King,  where  ammunition 
was  prepared  and  cartridges  were  manufactured  for  extended 
operations.  There  at  this  camp  the  services  of  a  young  girl 
were  found  to  be  most  valuable.  The  men  were  almost  totally 
destitute  of  revolver  bullets.  Powder  in  plentiful  supplies  could 
be  obtained  in  any  direction,  but  lead  was  the  article  that  was 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDEE  349 

so  necessary  and  yet  so  scarce.  Miss  Mattie  King,  with  the 
beauty  and  the  bashfulness  of  one  who  had  lived  much  with 
nature,  had  yet  the  clear  perception  and  the  calm  self-reliance 
of  a  real  heroine.  She  seems  to  have  anticipated  just  such  a 
condition  of  things  as  had  now  come  about.  For  months  and 
months  before  there  had  been  any  extraordinary  demand  for 
lead  among  the  Guerrillas  who  were  operating  generally 
throughout  Clay  and  the  contiguous  counties,  she  had  begun  to 
buy  it,  quietly  and  persistently  and  to  hoard  it  as  though  it  had 
been  gold.  All  of  her  hidden  stores  were  now  brought  forth, 
more  precious  than  pearls  or  rubies.  The  men  blessed. her 
and  felt  something  akin  to  reverence  for  the  tender  maiden  as 
she  went  about  moulding  bullets  and  preparing  cartridges  for 
the  pistols.  As  modest  as  any  wood  flower  blooming  alone 
upon  her  father's  premises,  and  artless  as  any  wild  bird  swaying 
and  singing  in  the  trees  about  her  country  home,  savage  Guer- 
rillas softened  visibly  as  she  spoke  to  them  as  she  passed,  and 
boisterous  young  desperadoes  lifted  plumed  hats  to  her  as  to  an 
innocent  thing  that  was  to  bring  them  good  luck.  Lithe,  sun- 
browned,  blue-eyed,  winning  in  all  frank  and  ingenuous  ways, 
there  are  yet  left  a  few  of  Taylor's  Guerrilla  band  who  speak  of 
her  to-day  as  a  Queen  by  the  dusk  on  her  hair,  and  tell  in  praise 
of  her  and  as  a  token  of  their  loyalty  to  the  past  that  two  hun- 
dred Federals  fell  before  the  bullets  moulded  by  her  willing 
hands. 

Captain  Taylor  rarely  rested  more  than  two  days  in  thirty — 
rarely  slept  more  than  four  hours  in  twenty-four.  He  had  a 
theory  of  his  own  touching  the  struggle  which,  summed  up 
thoroughly,  gave  about  such  a  proposition  as  this:  The  war 
cannot  last  always;  the  pace  is  too  terrific  to  continue  long; 
the  exertions  are  too  immense  to  endure.  Consequently  the 
more  frequently  we  fight  the  less  those  of  us  who  survive  the 
war  will  have  to  reproach  ourselves  with  when  the  end  comes. 
A  battle  a  day  is  about  the  average. 

Ray  county  was  again  invaded.  Taylor  marched  along  .the 
Liberty  and  Richmond  road,  in  the  direction  of  Richmond,  lead- 
ing the  advance  himself  with  twenty-four  men.  Next  to  Taylor 
was  Thrailkill,  and  next  to  Thrailkill,  Jo  Macy.  At  the  Conrow 
House,  two  miles  west  of  Fredericksburg,  forty-seven  Colorado 
soldiers  were  encountered,  commanded  by  Captain  Moses. 


350  NOTED  GUEREILLAS,  OB 

These,  busy  at  work  on  the  contents  of  the  Conrow  House — 
ripping  open  mattresses,  appropriating  whatever  was  coveted, 
breaking,  destroying,  and  wantonly  trampling  under  foot — began 
to  form  instantly  and  disencumber  themselves  of  all  superfluities 
as  the  Guerrillas  rode  in  sight.  Without  waiting  for  the  detach- 
ments under  Thrailkill  and  Macy  to  close  up  compactly,  Taylor 
dashed  at  the  Colorado  people  savagely,  unable  to  restrain  his 
men  and  unwilling  as  well.  Peyton  Long,  Jesse  James,  Fletch 
Taylor,  Frank  James,  and  John  Thrailkili  were  neck  and  neck 
in  the  run.  Bud  Pence-,  Dick  West,  Gooly  Robertson,  Nat 
Tigue,  McMacane,  Dock  Rupe,  Henry  Coward,  Silas  King, 
James  Commons,  Allen  Parmer,  Jo  Nicholson,  James  Nichols, 
Garrette  Groomer,  Joe  Macy,  Oil  Shepherd,  William  Stone,  and 
a  few  others  strove  with  desperate  emulation  the  one  to  surpass 
the  other  in  speed  and  prowess.  Jesse  James,  by  the  time  the 
onset  culminated  in  its  crash  upon  the  enemy,  was  a  length 
ahead  of  the  swiftest  riders  and  killed  the  first  Federal  in  the 
midst  of  his  own  ranks.  Afterward  the  melee  passed  as  a  whirl- 
wind. Jesse  James  was  shot  severely  in  the  left  hand  and 
knocked  senseless  from  his  saddle  by  a  powerful  blow  from  the 
butt  of  a  Colorado  soldier's  carbine.  Another  soldier  stood 
over  him  while  he  was  down  and  attempted  to  blow  out  his 
brains.  Taylor  killed  him,  and  in  falling  he  fell  across  the 
Guerrilla's  body.  Captain  Moses  fought  like  a  frontiersman 
surrounded  by  Indians,  but  of  what  avail  was  fighting  there? 
The  revolver  volleys  made  it  impossible  for  any  Federal  force, 
evenly  matched,  to  live  and  hold  its  own  beyond  a  second  or 
two  of  awful  sacrifice.  Moses  held  on  until  thirty  of  his  men 
were  dead  or  wounded  about  him,  and  then  he  fled  followed  by 
the  remnant  of  his  stricken  company.  Not  far  away  from  the 
point  of  combat  they  separated  in  every  direction ;  Moses  and 
six  others  keeping  boldly  to  the  highway.  Jesse  James,  recov- 
ered somewhat  from  the  furious  blow  dealt  him,  staggered  to  his 
feet,  and  from  his  feet  to  his  horse,  and  then  spurred  away  in 
the  exciting  chase.  Moses  was  followed  five  miles  by  Peyton 
Long,  Joe  Macy,  Henry  Coward,  Frank  and  Jesse  James. 
Four  of  his  squad  of  six  were  killed,  while  Moses  himself — pur- 
sued by  Jesse  James  with  ferocious  intensity — lost  his  plumed 
hat,  his  horse,  and  his  pistols,  and  only  escaped  after  taking 
refuge  in  a  dense  swamp  where  it  was  impossible  for  horsemen 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  351 

to  come  after  him.  The  hat — a  plumed  trophy  of  no  inconsider- 
able merit  in  those  days — was  presented  to  George  Todd  after- 
ward by  Jesse  James.  The  day  he  was  killed,  leading  a  furious 
charge  upon  the  rear  of  this  same  Second  Colorado  regiment  to 
which  Moses  belonged,  Todd  fell  wearing  this  hat. 

The  other  fruits  of  the  fight  besides  the  dead  and  the  wound- 
ed were  thirty-three  serviceable  horses,  thirty-three  McClellan 
saddles,  twenty-eight  dragoon  revolvers,  and  forty  Star  carbines 
— one  pattern  of  an  innumerable  array  of  breech-loaders  the 
Federal  government  was  then  experimenting  with,  corrupt  Con- 
gressmen and  venal  army  boards  dividing  profits  equally  with 
the  inventor  and  the  manufacturer. 

Resuming  his  march,  Taylor  passed  through  Knoxville  into 
Caldwell  county,  and  encountered  fifty  militia,  thirteen  of  whom 
were  killed,  twenty-two  wounded,  and  the  balance  captured  and 
paroled.  At  Kingston,  Commons,  Castle,  Tigue  and  Robertson 
took  from  the  county  treasurer  $6,000  in  greenbacks  and  divided 
it  among  the  Guerrillas  per  capita — a  sort  of  prize  money 
scarcely  legitimate  and  certainly  of  but  little  account  so  gener- 
ally apportioned. 

At  Plattsburg,  in  Clinton  county,  the  court  house  was  held  by 
a  Federal  garrison  numbering  eighty  militia.  Taylor  attempted 
to  surprise  it  but  failed.  Some  citizen  spy  preceded  him  with 
accurate  information  of  his  movements  and  when  he  charged  into 
the  town  the  court  house  was  defiant  and  impregnable.  Desultory 
skirmishing  followed.  The  keen,  practical,  savage  Guerrilla 
had  no  intention  of  losing  against  brick  walls  and  barricaded 
passage-ways  a  single  man  or  a  single  horse.  He  cooped  up  the 
garrison  in  their  citadel  a  sufficient  length  of  time  to  obtain  all 
the  powder  and  lead  possible  and  retired  afterwards  with  one 
man  slightly  wounded.  As  the  Guerrillas  rode  out,  however, 
and  as  Taylor  and  Thrailkill  were  moving  slowly  along  together 
in  the  rear,  they  halted  upon  the  last  elevation  that  overlooked 
the  town,  and  gazed  for  a  moment  back  upon  the  fortified  build- 
ing. A  man  stood  in  its  main  door,  holding  in  his  right  hand  a 
field  glass.  No  firing  was  going  on,  for  those  in  the  court  house 
imagined  that  the  larger  body  of  the  Guerrillas  had  passed 
beyond  range.  Thrailkill  spoke  to  Taylor  and  said:  "I  shall 
try  a  shot  at  that  Yank  with  the  field  glass.  Can  I  hit  him?" 
Always  curt,  Taylor  answered  shortly:  "Too  far."  "So  it  may 


352  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

be,  but  some  bullets  are  charmed."  ' 'Shoot,  then."  Thrail- 
kill  had  a  Savage  pistol  which  he  generally  held  in  reserve  for 
skirmishing  work — a  huge,  uncouth,  big-bored,  unpromising 
thing — and  this  he  quickly  elevated  and  fired  as  a  man  fires  who 
expects  little  from  his  shot  or  is  indifferent  to  its  effect,  what- 
ever it  is.  With  the  report  the  man  pitched  forward  from  the 
door  of  the  court  house  upon  his  face.  "If  he  gets  up," 
Thrailkill  coolly  ejaculated,  beginning  to  load  the  empty  cylin- 
der, "he  is  hit  but  not  hurt.  If  he  does  not  get  up  he  is  dead." 
The  two  stood  there  a  few  brief  moments,  waiting.  He  did  not 
get  up.  Finally  half  a  dozen  soldiers  rushed  from  the  court 
house,  lifted  up  the  prostrate  form,  and  carried  it  back  into  the 
building  with  them.  It  was  a  limp  thing  they  carried,  the  back 
swagged,  the  hair  trailed,  the  knees  at  their  joints  were  helpless 
— instead  of  a  man  the  burden  borne  away  was  like  a  sack  filled 
with  sand.  "That  will  do,"  Taylor  said,  as  he  touched  his  horse 
lightly  with  a  spur,  "the  man  is  dead."  And  he  was.  Thrail- 
kill, however  Jhe  thing  happened  so,  had  killed  the  commander 
of  the  garrison,  Captain  Turner,  at  a  distance  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty-six  measured  yards.  From  that  day  to  this  he  might 
have  stood  shooting  there,  as  innocent  of  marksmanship  again 
so  fatal  as  William  Tell  was  innocent  of  Colt's  revolvers. 

Little  things  sometimes,  unnoticed  and  unimportant,  go  far 
to  make  up  the  warp  and  woof  of  what  men  call  destiny.  An 
ambuscade — ore  of  a  countless  number  the  war  saw  and  made 
to  become  a  part  of  its  tactics — saved  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  from 
a  thunderbolt  similar  to  the  thunderbolt  which  destroyed  Law- 
rence. Some  Iowa  troops,  serving  temporarily  along  the  bor- 
der between  Missouri  and  Kansas,  had  surpassed  the  Jayhaw- 
kers,  if  that  were  possible,  in  the  cruelty  of  their  reprisals  and 
the  completeness  of  their  pillage.  They  not  only  burned  dwell- 
ings, like  the  Jayhawkers,  but  put  the  torch  as  well  to  out- 
houses, fruit  trees,  fences,  grain  in  stacks,  and  forage  in  the 
fields.  They  not  only  killed  wounded  soldiers  shot  down  in 
battle,  as  their  omniverous  prototypes,  but  old  men  fared 
roughly  at  their  hands,  and  non-combatants  were  put  to  death. 
Taylor  fought  them  wherever  he  found  them,  but  he  meant  to 
do  more.  He  meant  to  make  them  understand  what  kind 
of  taste  the  chalice  bore  they  had  so  sternly  pressed  to  the  lips  of 
the  Missourians.  He  meant  to  burn,  to  pillage,  and  slay  iust 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  353 

as  the  Iowa  troops  had  burnt,  and  pillaged,  and  slain,  and  he 
meant  to  do  it  speedily.  Leaving  his  com  pany  tinder  the  com- 
mand of  Frank  James,  he  took  with  him,  after  his  return  from 
Plattsbnrg,  Thrailkill  and  Allen  Farmer  and  crossed  the  Missouri 
river  into  Jackson  county,  for  a  conference  with  George  Todd. 
Todd  embraced  the  proposition  as  though  it  had  been  a  woman, 
large-breasted  and  beautiful.  "Iowa!"  he  exclaimed,  when 
Taylor  had  told  him  of  his  plans,  and  explained  to  him  how 
feasible  they  were,  "I  had  rather  kill  ten  lowans  to-morrow 
than  fifty  Kansas  Jayhawkers.  Get  your  men  together  at  once 
and  let  us  begin  to  march!" 

Taylor,  still  keeping  near  him  Thrailkill  and  Farmer,  and 
having  been  joined  in  Jackson  county  by  Henry  Porter,  was 
making  much  haste  back  to  his  company  in  Clay.  While  pass- 
ing through  Rash  Bottom,  and  riding  carelessly  along,  unsuspi- 
cious of  all  clanger,  a  deadly  fire  from  thirty  ambushed  Federals 
tore  off  Taylor's  left  arm  close  to  the  shoulder,  hurt  Thrailkill 
badly  in  the  head,  put  a  ball  into  Porter's  right  leg,  and  another 
into  Farmer's  right  shoulder.  Wounded  as  they  were,  and  as 
desperately  wounded  as  was  Taylor,  these  four  men,  bleeding  at 
every  step  and  scarcely  able  to  keep  fast  to  their  saddles,  fought 
back  their  pursuers  for  eight  miles  and  finally  escaped  and 
recovered.  With  this  ambushment  ended  the  Des  Moines  expe- 
dition. Had  Fletch  Taylor  escaped  that  day  the  dreadful 
wound  which  mutilated  him  for  life,  he  would  have  been  with 
Todd  the  day  following  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  of  as  desper- 
ate Guerrillas  as  Missouri  ever  furnished,  while  Todd — still  in 
command  of  the  bulk  of  Quantrell's  original  band — would  have 
added  fifty  additional  veteran,  fighters  to  the  column  especially 
adapted  for  the  work  proposed.  A  single  volley,  however, 
saved  an  Iowa  city  and  many  a  head  and  many  a  habitation 
round  about. 

Frank  James  succeeded  to  a  stormy  legacy,  the  command 
of  a  company  hunted  hourly  by  a  thousand  horsemen.  At 
Mrs.  Robertson's,  where  he  had  taken  breakfast,  a  Federal 
scout,  one  hundred  and  fifty  strong,  attacked  him  and  drove 
him  into  some  heavy  timber.  There — forming  an  ugly 
ambuscade — he  sent  back  as  a  lure  from  the  depths  of  its 
obscurity  Jesse  James  and  seven  picked  Guerrillas.  The 
Federals,  forming  on  the  edge  of  the  timber  and  keeping 
23 


354  NOTED  QUBBRZLLA8t  OH 

altogether  there,  would  not  be  moved  into  the  gloom  of  the 
overhanging  trees  and  the  thicker  undergrowth.  Jesse  James 
tried  to  tempt  them  into  pursuit  of  him  by  bravado,  defiance, 
annoying  volleys  at  pistol  range,  insulting  cries  and  motions  of 
contempt,  but  the  wily  militia  were  imperturbable.  Then  he 
charged  them  recklessly.  His  own  horse  was  shot  from  under 
him,  James  Justis,  riding  on  the  right  hand,  was  killed, 
Fred  Breaker  was  wounded  badly,  together  with  Gooly  Robin- 
son, Johnson  Barbie  and  Bud  Pence,  or  four  wounded  and  one 
killed  out  of  the  eight  skirmishers  sent  forward  as  a  decoy 
detachment.  The  next  day  Anderson  entered  Clay  county  with 
a  hundred  followers,  Frank  James  joined  him  at  once,  and 
thereafter,  and  until  his  death,  the  exploits  of  this  noted  Guer- 
rilla might  be  written  down  equally  as  the  exploits  of  the 
Jameses,  and  the  bulk  of  Taylor's  decimated  yet  desperate 
organization. 

James  Justis,  not  yet  eighteen,  was  a  brave  boy  from  Jackson 
county.  Shot  dead  in  the  furious  charge  made  by  Jesse  James, 
he  fell  within  twenty  yards  of  the  enemy.  Afoot  himself — his 
disabled  horse  but  a  little  space  behind  him — Jesse  James 
halted  long  enough  by  Justis,  as  he  ran  to  the  rear,  to  unbuckle 
his  pistol  belt  and  remove  his  revolvers.  As  he  did  this  Dof 
Carroll  stood  over  him  on  his  horse  fighting  back  a  dozen 
Federals  and  keeping  them  back  until  James  had  taken  away 
from  his  boyish  comrade,  whose  wide  open  blue  eyes  were 
tenderly  closed,  everything  which  savored  of  a  trophy.  All 
that  day  the  dead  body  lay  where  it  had  fallen.  The  Guer- 
rillas— too  weak  to  attack  the  enemy  where  he  stood  in  position 
— broke  up  their  ambushment  and  disappeared.  The  Federals 
— rcontent  to  leave  unexplored  all  that  portion  of  the  unknown 
in  front  of  them — fell  back  later  in  the  day  to  Liberty. 
Neither  gave  a  coffin  to  the  corpse.  The  young  face,  very 
ghastly  now  and  pitiful,  still  gazed  up  reproachfully  to  the  sky. 
At  nightfall  Mrs.  Zcrelda  Samuel  and  Miss  Bettie  Robertson, 
accompanied  by  a  negro  woman  of  middle  age,  came  to  where 
the  dead  boy  lay.  They  were  going  to  bury  him.  The  land- 
scape was  in  unison  with  the  occasion.  A  summer  wind  sighed 
through  the  great  elms,  and  the  slow  moving  women  were  as  so 
many  phantoms  among  the  trees.  Twilight  had  deepened  into 
darKness.  Here  and  there  the  noise  as  of  wings  told  of  a  night 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  355 

bird  flying  away  to  its  own.  Close  by  some  running  water 
murmured  a  monotone.  The  light  of  the  stars  needed  no  moon 
— it  was  so  soft  and  quiet.  The  women  dug  the  grave  and  bore 
the  boy  to  it  tenderly  when  it  was  finished.  For  shroud  there 
was  a  white  sheet,  and  about  this  sheet  an  army  blanket  for  a 
coffin.  "He  has  a  mother/*  Mrs.  Samuel  whispered,  "and 
one  day  she  will  bless  me  for  this."  As  she  spoke  she  stooped 
and  cut  from  above  the  bronzed,  open  brow  a  long,  fair  lock  of 
hair,  moist  with  the  summer  dew.  No  burial  service  was  read, 
no  audible  prayer  was  spoken.  The  bare-headed  women,  alone 
with  the  corpse  and  the  darkness,  laid  the  young  hero  to  rest 
reverently,  yet  without  rite  or  ritual.  Mrs.  Samuel's  face  was 
calm,  earnest,  yet  fixed  and  resolute.  The  fair  girl  beside  her, 
with  her  unbound  hair  about  her  shoulders,  fixed  her  pure 
eyes  upon  the  dead.  The  composure  of  each  was  per- 
fect. Tne  negro  woman,  standing  herself  at  the  bottom  of 
the  grave,  received  from  the  hands  of  the  two  above  her  the 
shrouded  form  of  the  Southern  soldier.  Over  his  face,  and  to 
keep  it  fair  and  boyish  to  the  last,  they  placed  branches  with 
leaves  upon  them  and  bunches  of  sweet  smelling  grass.  Then, 
toiling  there,  and  speaking  briefly  to  one  another  there  and 
always  in  whispers,  they  filled  up  the  grave,  and  marked  it 
foot  and  head,  and  left  it  alone  for  God  and  the  resurrection. 
But  is  it  any  wonder  that  when  the  South  had  such  women  the 
South  had  also  such  men?  The  burial  of  the  Guerrilla  dead 
had  been  forbidden  every  where  along  the  border.  Where  one 
of  the  accursed  class  fell  there  should  he  remain  until  the 
elements  wasted  him,  or  the  buzzards  devoured  him,  or  the 
hogs  ate  him  up.  The  citizen  who  dug  a  hole  to  put  him  in — 
no  matter  how  shallow  or  wretched — was  an  outlaw  branded 
like  Cain ;  and  the  woman  who  dared  to  do  what  the  man  was 
forbidden  to  do,  was  a  dangerous  woman  necessary  to  be  caged 
or  ironed.  Many  women  were  served  thus,  Mrs.  Samuel 
among  the  number ;  and  many  old  citizens  were  shot  down  in 
cold  blood,  simply  because  some  Guerrilla  corpse  upon  the 
highroad  had  been  hidden  away  or  buried. 

Frank  James,  the  day  when  he  united   his  own  fortunes  to 
those  of  Anderson,  carried  with  him  into  the  new  organization: 
Jesse  James,  Dock  Rupe,  Silas  King 

William  Grindstaff,      Peyton  Long,  James  Commons, 


356 


NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 


William  Blackrnore, 
Richard  West, 
William  Stone, 
David  Wade, 
Jeptha  Bowles, 
Marston  Lisle, 
Richard  Ellington, 
Newton  Oliphant, 
Allen  Farmer, 
William  Henaburg, 
Robert  Todd, 
Johnson  Barbie, 
Newman  Wade, 
Gooly  Robinson, 
Ling  Litten, 


Joshua  Esters, 
Jack  Rupe, 
Harvey  Brown, 
Creth  Creek, 
Leon  Martinez, 
Snowy  Jenkins, 
John  Fisher, 
Theodore  Castle, 
Dof  Carroll, 
James  Bissett, 
Plunk  Murray, 
John  Wilson, 
Abner  Creek, 
Oil  Shepherd, 


Samuel   *Vade, 
Dock  Corly, 
Joe  Holt, 
Bud  Pence, 
Socrates  Johnson 
Parker  Talcott, 
Peter  Farley, 
John  Hope, 
Nat  Tigue, 
Patrick  McMacane, 
George  Daily, 
Thomas  Fulton, 
Garrett   Groomer, 
John  Chatman, 
Thomas  Tuckett, 
Rezin  Magruder, 
Valentine  Baker, 


Henry  Coward, 

William  Winchester,  Henry  Buford, 
Samuel  Finnegan,        Oscar  Swisby, 

Clarence  Tomlinson. 

Before  a  year  had  passed  what  a  harvest  death  reaped  in  the 
ranks  of  these  ardent  Guerrillas,  young  and  dauntless.  Peyton 
Long  fell  among  the  last  of  Taylor's  heroic  band,  but  many  had 
preceded  him  and  some  few  had  followed  him.  In  unnoted  or 
forgotten  graves  they  sleep  from  the  Ohio  river  to  the  Pacific 
ocean.  Not  all  the  killed  can  be  enumerated  after  the  lapse  of 
so  many  years,  but  the  following  are  the  names  of  many  of  the 
most  intrepid  ones: 

Dock  Rupe, 

Garrette  Groomer, 

John  Chatman, 

James  Bissett, 

Harvey  Brown, 

Newton  Oliphant, 

Thomas  Tuckett, 

Snowy  Jenkins, 

Leon  Martinez, 


Peyton  Long, 
Robert  Todd, 
Theodore  Castle, 
Joshua  Esters, 
Patrick  McMacane, 
Gooly  Bobertson, 
Joe  Holt, 
Marston  Lisle, 


Dof  Carroll, 
Newman  Wade, 
Samuel  Wade, 
John  Wilson, 
Thomas  Fulton, 
Oil  Shepherd, 
Peter  Farley, 
Parker  Talcott, 
Socrates    Johnson, 
Rezin  Magruder, 
Valentine  Baker, 


Jeptha  Bowles, 

William  Winchester,  Henry  Buford, 

Samuel  Finnegan,       Oscar  Swisby, 

Clarence  Tomlinson. 

John  Thrailkill    with  a  bloody  rag  about  his  head  and  that 
ghastly   pallor  on   his  face   which   betokened    much   suffering, 


THE  WARFABE  OF  THE  BOEDER  357 

rejoined  his  men  near  Union  Mills,  in  Platte  county,  after  the 
murderous  ambuscade  of  the  Rush  Bottom.  Many  of  the 
recruits  desired  to  go  South,  and  some  who  had  been  Guerrillas 
preferred  to  become  at  last  regular  soldiers.  Joe  Macy  him- 
self was  getting  ready  to  lead  them  into  Arkansas,  when  a 
desperate  battle  ensued,  one  of  the  most  savage  and  bloody  of 
the  altogether  too  savage  border  war.  A  part  of  ThrailkilPs  forces 
were  camped  in  some  timber  two  miles  from  the  road,  commanded 
by  Joe  Macy,  and  a  part  a  mile  further  away,  commanded 
by  Thrailkill  in  person.  Altogether  the  Confederates  numbered 
probably  two  hundred  and  fifty.  Six  hundred  militia,  made  up 
of  detachments  from  various  posts,  battalions  and  regiments, 
sought  to  surprise  Thrailkill  and  exterminate  him.  A  forced 
march  of  eighteen  miles  was  made  with  great  secrecy  and  speed. 
No  one  was  permitted  to  pass  beyond  the  head  of  the  column. 
If  any  traveler  upon  the  highway  was  overtaken,  a  guard  was 
set  to  watch  him  and  to  regulate  his  pace  with  the  pace  of  the 
swift  moving  horsemen.  No  scout  of  the  enemy  had  been 
encountered.  Neither  picquet,  nor  sentinel,  nor  vigilant  guard, 
nor  outlying  detachment  seemed  to  be  abroad  anywhere  in  the 
darkness.  At  daylight  the  energetic  leader  of  the  Federal 
column  of  attack  had  reached  unobserved  to  within  a  mile  of 
Thrailkill' s  position.  If  he  had  pressed  on  he  must  unques- 
tionably have  ridden  into  a  sleeping  camp  and  broken  the 
slumbers  of  a  too  negligent  foe  with  a  musket  volley.  He  did 
not  ride  on.  The  night  air  had  given  him  a  keen  appetite,  and 
he  stopped  long  enough  at  a  farm  house  to  arouse  its  inmates 
and  provide  for  a  pot  of  hot  coffee.  His  host  had  a  daughter — 
a  brave,  high-spirited  Southern  girl — who  saw  at  a  glance  the 
situation  of  affairs  and  the  imminent  peril  of  the  Guerrilla 
camp.  She  scarcely  took  time  to  complete  her  toilette.  She 
made  no  effort  at  obtaining  a  horse.  Half  clad,  her  hair 
unbound,  her  feet  wet  with  the  night  dew,  her  cheeks  aflame, 
her  eyes  eager  and  expectant,  she  burst  into  Thrailkill's  presence 
while  he  was  yet  wrapped  up  in  his  blankets  and  told  him  vividly 
the  story  of  the  peril.  Many  men  would  have  dallied  and 
doubted ;  this  man  thanked  the  brave  girl  with  a  look  full  of 
reverence  and  gratitude,  and  leaped  to  his  feet  a  living  embod- 
iment of  skill,  courage  and  determination.  A  swift  runner 
aroused  Macy.  A  swift  whisper  encompassed  the  camp.  Som- 


358  NOTED  QUEKKILLAS,  OR 

nolent  thinga,  stupid  with  sleep,  stood  armed  and  clear-eyed 
through  the  clear  revealment.  Every  laggard  was  alert,  every 
inert  mass  was  moving.  Preparation  ran  from  group  to  group 
as  fire  from  tree  to  tree  in  a  pine  forest.  In  the  gray  dawn 
gun-barrels  glistened.  From  out  the  shadows  short  orders  told 
of  officers.  The  undergrowth  was  alive;  the  morning  mist 
became  inhabited.  By  this  time  the  Federal  commander  had 
finished  his  coffee,  closed  up  his  column,  and  burst  upon  the 
Guerrillas.  Instead  of  a  surprise,  a  hurricane  of  fire  awaited 
him.  Behind  each  oak,  and  elm,  and  cottonwood,  and  walnut 
a  covered  marksman,  border  trained  and  bred,  held  his  tree  as 
a  bull-dog  holds  its  grip.  The  fight,  hot  at  first  and  from  the 
very  beginning,  grew  suddenly  desperate.  The  Federal  com- 
mander fought  splendidly.  Once  on  the  left  he  broke  through 
a  portion  of  Thrailkill's  line  and  enfiladed  mercilessly  his  whole 
position.  A  charge  alone  could  recover  the  ground  thus  furiously 
wrested — a  hot,  swift,  unrelenting  charge.  Thrailkill  led  it. 
He  looked  like  some  monstrous  nightmare.  A  bloody  rag  was 
still  about  his  face.  His  eyes  were  inflamed  because  through 
much  suffering  he  had  not  slept.  The  plaster  put  upon  his 
wound  had  melted  and  run  along  his  cheeks.  His  beard  was 
matted  and  bristling.  One  side  of  his  head  had  been  shaved. 
He  tottered  as  he  walked.  The  dauntless  spirit,  however, 
burned  as  the  eternal  fire  of  the  Persians,  and  his  desperate 
hardihood  bore  him  up  as  though  the  skeleton  was  hardest  iron. 
The  charge  was  as  a  wave  that  had  no  ebb.  Twenty  Guer- 
rillas fell  in  as  many  seconds.  Peters  was  killed,  and  Johnson, 
Love,  Marshall,  Benedict,  Parsons,  Sallee,  Nuckols,  Parker, 
Jeter,  Samuels,  Morgan,  Tomlinson,  Jeffries,  Solomon,  Tilton, 
Harker,  Leftwich,  Myers,  Snowdon,  James,  Thoroughman,  and 
Harrison  Norton.  Many  more  were  wounded.  ThrailkilPs 
horse  was  killed.  He  mounted  another — the  horse  of  a  dead 
comrade — and  this  was  killed.  In  falling  it  fell  upon  him  and 
broke  his  left  arm.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  broken  until 
the  battle  was  done.  A  ball  carried  away  his  hat  and  the  plaster 
about  his  wound.  He  had  not  time  to  find  another  covering  for 
it.  Another  ball  cut  through  his  upper  lip  and  knocked  two 
teeth  away.  He  spit  forth  a  mouthful  of  blood  and  bone,  and 
shouted  loud  to  his  desperate  followers :  "  Hold  on,  boys !  hold 
on  for  your  lives !  Macy  is  coming!" 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER       -   359 

And  Macy  had  come!  Delayed  somewhat  in  his  efforts  to 
secure  the  horses,  and  pestered  to  a  considerable  degree  by  the 
difficulties  of  crossing  a  couple  of  creeks,  he  yet  arrived  at  that 
very  moment  of  time  when  he  was  most  needed.  Thrailkill  was 
whipped  undoubtedly.  He  had  lost  eighty  of  his  best  men 
killed  or  wounded.  His  line  was  being  cut  to  pieces.  His 
charge,  desperate  as  it  had  been  and  as  unyielding,  had  failed. 
He  was  afoot  and  maimed.  Some  of  his  soldiers  were  out  of 
ammunition.  Many  were  falling  back.  Not  a  few  were  running 
away. 

Macy  attacked  nt  a  run.  The  Federals — broken  considerably 
themselves,  and  fighting  in  squads  and  detachments — knew 
nothing  of  this  second  force  until  it  was  upon  them.  They 
rallied  fast,  however,  and  faced  it  manfully.  There  were  some 
few  brief  moments  of  savage  combat — another  rush,  another 
deadly  volley — close,  hot,  irregular,  and  decisive — and  the  whole 
Federal  array  broke  back  from  the  timber  in  hopeless  disorder 
and  made  frantic  haste  to  their  horses,  followed  by  Macy  with 
the  fury  of  a  whirlwind.  A  few  mounted  men  at  this  time  might 
have  destroyed  the  routed  militia  at  a  blow,  but  none  were  at 
hand.  Every  Guerrilla  was  afoot.  Many  of  their  horses  had 
been  killed,  and  those  of  Macy's  were  a  mile  from  the  battle- 
field. He  had  turned  a  defeat  into  a  victory,  however,  and  by 
his  energy  and  intrepidity  had  rescued  Thrailkill  and  saved  the 
remnant  of  his  devoted  followers.  In  the  absence  of  orders  he 
had  done  simply  what  every  good  soldier  history  deals  with  had 
done — as  did  Desaix  at  Marengo,  Boufflers  at  Steinkirk,  Han- 
cock at  Gettysburg,  Stonewall  Jackson  at  Antietam — he  has- 
tened to  where  the  fire  by  its  intensity  told  of  a  terrible  fight. 
If  he  had  tarried  a  single  minute  for  instructions,  if  he  had 
waited  the  bare  time  a  swift  horseman  might  have  taken  to  ride 
as  if  riding  a  race  the  scant  mile  between  camp  and  camp,  if 
even  when  upon  the  road  he  had  waited  to  find  fords  or  preserve 
a  soldierly  array,  the  jaws  of  the  fierce  Federal  attack  would 
have  closed  upon  Thrailkill  and  crushed  him  beyond  redemp- 
tion. 

But  the  true  victor  in  the  morning's  bloody  battle  was  the 
patriotic  young  girl,  Mary  Harrison.  Her  unerring  intuition — 
almost  a  sixth  sense  with  a  majority  of  women — had  enabled 
her  to  understand  at  a  glance  the  intentions  of  the  Federal  com- 


360  NOTED  aUEERILLAS,  OK 

mander,  and  the  rapid  execution  of  a  courageous  purpose  had 
enabled  her  thoroughly  to  prevent  their  execution.  She  lives 
to-day,  a  blessed  memory  in  many  a  faithful  heart,  a  matron 
indeed  whose  husband  was  once  a  notorious  Guerrilla,  and  who, 
whatever  else  he  may  teach  his  white-haired  children,  will  teach 
them  that  there  is — 

"No  crime,  or  curse,  or  vice 
As  bad  as  that  of  cowardice," 

The  death  of  Andrew  Blunt  was  eminently  in  keeping  with  his 
stormy  and  desperate  life.  Nothing  was  known  of  this  man's 
earlier  history.  He  was  one  among  the  first  who  came  to  Quan- 
trell.  Some  said  one  thing  of  him,  some  another.  He  had  been 
a  private  in  the  2d  United  States  Cavalry,  he  had  killed  a  sergeant 
and  escaped,  he  had  been  punished  so  severelv  by  a  lieutenant 
in  New  Mexico  that  he  had  shot  the  lieutenant  and  made  his 
way  to  Missouri,  he  had  some  weighty  secret  always  upon  his 
mind,  he  had  done  some  terrible  deed,  he  was  a  brooding  and  a 
mysterious  man — these  are  some  of  the  things  told  of  Blunt 
among  the  Guerrillas,  little  heeded,  however,  or  accounted  of. 
Quantrell  found  him  a  most  excellent  orderly  sergeant,  and 
recruited  him  as  such.  He  wrote  an  excellent  hand.  He 
certainly  had  been  a  soldier  at  some  time  in  his  life.  All  the 
details  of  a  cavalry  soldier's  duty  were  as  an  open  book  to  him. 
He  rode  splendidly.  His  skill  with  a  pistol  was  marvelous.  He 
excelled  as  a  spy.  He  had  as  many  shapes  as  Porteus,  as 
many  disguises  as  a  conspirator  of  the  Riye  House  Plot.  No 
deed  was  too  desperate  for  him  to  attempt,  no  service  too  reck- 
less to  receive  his  help.  A  mingled  feeling  of  devotion  and 
intrepidity  cost  him  his  life. 

In  December,  1863,  Otho  Hinton,  a  comrade  in  arms  of  Blunt, 
and  a  Quantrell  Guerrilla  of  great  prowess  and  courage,  was  shot 
badly  and  captured  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Neal,  of  Lafayette 
county,  situated  on  the  Warrensburg  and  Lexington  road. 
Hinton  was  carried  to  Lexington,  tried  as  a  Guerrilla,  found 
guilty  as  a  Guerrilla  and  sentenced  to  be  shot.  With  something 
of  a  plausible  yet  bitter  irony,  those  who  had  condemned  him  con- 
cluded to  keep  him  until  his  wounds  were  healed,  and  it  was 
while  he  was  in  the  hands  of  the  surgeon  that  Blunt  with  two 
men  attempted  his  rescue  in  January,  1864.  Miss  Annie  Fickel 
was  taken  into  his  confidence.  She  was  a  Southern  woman  of 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  361 

action  and  Patriotism.  Cultivated,  refined,  full  of  maiden 
modesty  and  timidity,  she  yet  recognized  it  as  her  Christian 
duty  to  give  aid  and  encouragement  to  the  Confederate  cause, 
and  to  risk  much  and  make  use  of  every  resource  at  her  com- 
mand for  the  succor  or  safety  of  its  defenders.  She  came  often 
to  Lexington  from  her  home  in  Greenton  Valley.  She  made 
herself  acquainted  with  the  prison  and  its  surroundings.  The 
topography  of  its  approaches  was  impressed  thoroughly  upon 
her  mind.  Once  she  obtained  an  interview  with  Hinton  and 
bade  him,  in  the  name  of  Blunt,  be  of  good  cheer.  The 
remarked  the  points  at  which  guards  were  stationed,  ascertained 
accurately  the  nature  of  the  discipline  which  prevailed,  observed 
everything  of  importance,  and  finally  reported  to  Blunt,  and 
with  great  precision  and  clearness,  the  exact  conditions  of  the 
case.  Bluut's  own  plan  was  soon  formed.  Dressed  as  Federal 
soldiers,  he  and  his  two  companions  were  to  enter  boldly  into 
Lexington,  avoiding  the  outlying  picquets  and  the  grand  guards, 
and  gain  unobserved  the  old  Masonic  College  building  where 
Hinton,  tolerably  well  cured  of  his  wound,  was  awaiting  execu- 
tion. There,  mingling  coolly  with  the  Federals,  and  asking  and 
answering  questions  indifferently,  he  was  gradually  to  work 
his  way  into  the  guard  room,  arm  Hinton,  kill  the  sentinel  on 
duty  at  the  door,  and  make  upon  the  consummation  of  the 
killing  a  desperate  rush  for  liberty.  The  absence  of  a  counter- 
sign added  probably  another  chance  to  whatever  the  chances 
where  at  any  time  of  success. 

Blunt  chose  the  night  well  upon  which  the  adventure  was  to 
be  made.  Although  it  was  January  a  drizzling  rain  was  falling, 
and  the  darkness  was  of  that  impenetrable  sort  which  might 
indeed  have  made  it  almost  black  to  the  blind.  Accompanied 
by  two  Guerrillas  equally  desperate  with  himself,  Blunt  flanked 
the  picquets  easily,  avoided  as  easily  the  guards,  and  entered 
the  city  afoot  and  unchallenged.  Things  speedily  happened, 
however,  which  alarmed  him.  Armed  men  were  patroling  the 
streets.  Very  few  soldiers  where  to  be  seen  about  the  saloons. 
An  unusual  air  of  preparation  and  expectancy  pervaded  Lex- 
ington. Blunt  did  not  waver.  He  made  his  way  slowly  but 
surely  to  the  College  and  was  gliding  with  his  men  as  three 
black  spectres  into  the  very  building  itself  when  he  was  discov- 
ered and  fired  at  without  even  being  called  out  to  or  halted. 


362  NOTED  GUEKllILLAS,  OR 

He  stood  perfectly  still,  hoping  that  in  the  darkness  he  might 
remain  undiscovered  until  the  alarm  was  over.  Such  probably 
might  have  been  the  case  if  none  had  known  of  the  attempted 
rescue  but  himself.  It  has  never  been  satisfactorily  ascertained 
to  this  day  how  the  Federal  commander  at  Lexington  knew  in 
advance  of  the  intentions  of  Blunt,  but  that  he  did  know  the 
extensive  preparations  made  to  receive  him  too  well  attested. 
It  is  probable  that  an  attack  in  much  larger  force  was  expected. 
Two  hundred  soldiers  at  least  were  under  arms  about  the  Col- 
lege. All  the  guards  had  been  doubled.  The  patrolling  par- 
ties about  the  streets  were  very  strong,  and  every  public  way 
for  ingress  or  egress  vigilantly  sentineled.  Blunt' s  superb 
nerve  and  presence  of  mind  did  not  save  him.  Although  he 
neither  exhibited  by  motion  nor  movement  that  those  who  had 
fired  at  him  had  fired  at  anything  more  tangible  than  air,  the 
firing  continued  viciously,  and  the  Guerrillas  were  forced  to 
retreat.  Then  a  furious  pursuit  followed.  Blunt  lost  one  of 
his  men,  shot  dead  by  his  side,  as  he  ran  down  College  street 
towards  Main,  and  the  other  over  beyond  Main  barely  a  square. 
He  was  alone  now,  and  beset  on  every  side  by  a  numerous  foe. 
He  did  not  quicken  his  pace.  He  was  neither  nervous,  excited, 
nor  alarmed  into  making  haste.  He  had  about  his  body  six 
heavy  revolvers,  and  he  would  see.  On  Franklin  street  he  fired 
his  first  shot  and  killed  a  Federal  who  had  taken  him  by  the 
collar.  On  South  street  he  killed  another.  His  line  of  retreat 
was  through  the  cemetery,  but  so  closely  was  he  pressed  that  at 
the  first  fence  a  musket  ball  wounded  him  in  the  left  leg.  He 
stumbled  among  the  graves  and  fell  over  tombstones.  The 
fierce  hue  and  cry  was  at  his  heels.  Every  now  and  then  a  volley 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  search  him  out  in  the  darkness.  At  the 
second  or  further  fence  he  trusted  too  much  to  his  wounded  leg 
in  climbing,  and  it  gave  way  beneath  him.  As  he  fell  he  fell 
upon  a  pointed  paling  which  inserted  itself  between  his  belt 
and  his  body  and  held  him  tightly  there,  suspended  between 
heaven  and  earth.  The  noise  made  by  his  endeavors  to  free 
himself  attracted  two  pursuing  Federals  to  the  spot,  one  of 
whom  fired  at  him,  and  the  other  closed  upon  him.  Blunt  killed 
the  two  almost  with  as  much  ease  as  Bogardus  would  kill  the 
pigeons  from  a  double  rise.  He  was  not  yet  extricated,  how- 
ever, nor  did  he  wrench  himself  free  from  the  paling  until 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  363 

twenty  or  thirty  pursuers  more  had  drawn  near  to  him,  attract- 
ed by  the  firing,  and  poured  in  a  telling  volley  which  wounded 
him  badly  in  the  right  side.  Here  he  lost  four  of  his  pistols. 
As  by  a  mighty  effort  he  bursted  the  revolver  belt  which  held 
him  as  in  a  vise,  four  of  his  trusty  weapons  fell  upon  the  side 
next  to  his  pursuers,  and  he  was  too  grievously  hurt  to  venture 
an  effort  to  recover  them.  Finally  he  cleared  the  cemetery, 
distanced  those  who  followed  on  his  track,  reached  the  road 
leading  out  by  the  fair  ground,  and  took  it  at  a  snail's  pace, 
faint,  bleeding,  desperate,  dangerous,  a  pistol  in  each  hand, 
and  that  cruel,  hungry  look  on  his  face  which  never  yet  had 
boded  good  to  any  enemy.  Presently  there  came  the  sound  of 
horses'  feet.  Blunt  drew  himself  up  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
and  listened.  Those  riding  through  the  night  and  into  Lexing- 
ton were  but  two,  and  if  they  were  Federals  he  would  kill  them 
both.  Not  until  the  oncoming  horses  were  near  enough  to  be 
taken  by  their  bridles,  did  he  call  keenly  out,  "Halt!"  Sup- 
posing in  the  darkness  that  they  had  ridden  close  up  to  the 
advanced  outpost  of  a  picquet,  the  two  horsemen  halted 
instantly  and  made  answer:  "We  are  halted.  What  will  you 
have?"  Blunt  drew  a  small  space  nearer,  peered  up  into  the 
faces  of  the  men  on  horseback,  saw  by  their  dress  that  one  was 
a  Federal  officer  and  one,  perhaps,  his  orderly,  and  killed  them 
both  as  swiftly  and  as  unerringly  as  he  had  killed  the  two  at  the 
paling  fence.  Afterwards  it  was  ascertained  that  one  of  the  two 
killed  thus  was  a  man  named  Thomas  Mocabee,  a  Kansas  Red 
Leg  deeply  concerned  in  the  murder  of  Cole  Younger's  father, 
Col.  Henry  W.  Younger.  Riding  Mocabee's  horse  and  leading 
the  other,  Blunt  made  what  haste  it  was  possible  for  a  badly 
wounded  man  to  make  to  the  Sni  hills.  Resting  quietly  at  a  camp 
deep  in  the  woods,  a  woman  betrayed  him  and  gave  up  the 
secret  of  his  hiding  place  to  a  detachment  of  Federal  soldiers 
numbering  fifty.  Blunt  died  as  a  wild  boar.  So  terrible  was 
the  name  of  the  man,  and  so  remarkable  was  his  skill  with  the 
pistol,  that  he  was  shot  to  death  with  long  range  guns.  Only 
two  of  the  fifty  ventured  to  come  within  revolver  range,  and 
these  he  killed.  Indeed,  he  rarely  ever  missed  any  object  at 
which  he  fired.  He  fought  until  he  was  literally  shot  to  pieces, 
until  eleven  bullets  had  been  put  into  various  portions  of  his 
body.  Otho  Hintou  was  killed  in  prison  the  night  of  his 


364  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,   OR 

attempted  rescue,  and  in  a  short  time  afterwards  Miss  Annie 
Fickel  was  arrested  for  conspiracy  against  the  government  and 
treated  with  the  cold  brutality  of  vindictive  cowardice. 

In  June  and  July,  1864,  there  was  a  reign  of  terror  every- 
where along  the  border.  Jesse  James  and  Allen  Farmer  cap- 
tured Bradley  Bond,  a  militiaman  living  near  Claytonville,  Clay 
county.  Bond  was  at  home  on  furlough,  and  though  heavily 
armed,  surrendered  without  a  struggle.  James  wanted  him 
especially.  He  had,  according  to  James'  belief,  been  the  chief 
of  a  scouting  party  who  in  one  day's  raiding  had  killed  four 
Southern  citizens,  hung  his  step-father,  Dr.  Samuel,  until  life 
was  nearly  extinct,  insulted  his  mother,  and,  with  a  rope  about 
his  own  neck,  had  dragged  him  from  the  field  where  he  had  been 
at  work,  beating  him  cruelly  and  without  cause.  Bond  begged 
hard  for  his  life,  but  James  told  him  first  of  his  crimes  and 
then  killed  him. 

The  next  day  Frank  James,  taking  with  him  his  brother  Jesse 
and  four  other  Guerrillas,  visited  the  house  of  Travis  Finley,  a 
resident  of  Clay  county,  and  surprised  there  and  captured  a 
militia  soldier  named  Alvas  Dailey.  Dailey,  though  only 
twenty- two  years  of  age,  was  regarded  by  the  Guerrillas  as  an 
extremely  bad  man..  He  had  accompanied  Bond  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  Samuel  raid,  and  at  several  other  times  and  places 
had  been  guilty  of  some  grievous  crimes.  Frank  James  shot 
him  dead  on  the  highway  and  left  him  unburied  for  the  citizens 
to  look  after. 

Two  days  after  Dailey  was  killed,  Frank  and  Jesse  James 
visited,  dressed  in  Federal  clothing,  the  house  of  an  old  man 
named  Banes,  which  was  situated  in  the  northeastern  portion 
of  Clay  county.  Some  Southern  citizens  had  reported  more 
than  once  to  the  Jameses  that  Banes  believed  in  a  war  of  exter- 
mination. It  was  known  that  he  often  had  dealings  with  the 
enemy.  Many  of  his  neighbors  felt  confident  that  he  was  a 
spy.  The  Guerrillas  more  than  once  had  been  made  to  suffer 
severely  through  the  information  of  their  whereabouts  conveyed 
by  Banes  to  the  Federal  soldiery.  It  would  be  a  miracle  if 
sooner  or  later  a  sudden  blow  did  not  destroy  him.  As  soldiers 
belonging  to  a  Colorado  regiment,  Jesse  and  Frank  James  were 
cordially  received.  An  excellent  supper  was  served.  The  after- 
talk  was  both  curious  and  unexpected.  It  is  reported  that 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER        365 

Banes  was  especially  anxious  to  have  Mrs.  Samuel  killed  and 
her  property  destroyed.  The  reason  of  his  dislike  was  asked 
and  boldly  given:  "She  has  two  devils  for  sons,"  he  said,  "and 
she  is  cheek  by  jowl  with  all  the  infernal  bushwhackers  in  the 
country.  In  order  to  break  up  an  immense  nest  of  unclean 
birds,  it  would  be  a  righteous  thing  to  burn  every  shingle  on  the 
premises."  "Why  has  it  not  been  done?"  her  sons  asked. 
"The  militia  are  too  cowardly,"  the  old  man  fiercely  replied, 
"and  the  regular  Federals  are  too  conscientious.  Sometimes  I 
feel  like  trying  to  do  it  alone."  "Who  are  these  James  boys?" 
was  the  further  enquiry  of  the  ostensible  Coloradans.  "Two 
Guerrillas  who  have  killed  more  Union  soldiers  and  citizens  than 
any  other  two  butchers  in  Missouri.  They  are  here  to-day  and 
gone  to-morrow.  Their  old  mother  posts  them.  The  Southern 
citizens  feed  them.  Sometimes  they  operate  together  and  some- 
times with  fifty  or  sixty  more.  They  are  veritable  wild  beasts, 
I  tell  you,  and  they  devour  everything."  "If  you  will  pilot  us, 
Mr.  Banes,"  Jesse  James  spoke  up,  "and  help  us  to  fight  if 
there  is  fighting  to  be  done,  we  will  try  to-night  the  virtue  of  a 
little  fire."  The  old  man's  exultation  was  immense.  A  saddled 
horse  was  soon  at  the  fence  for  him.  From  one  secret  place  a 
Spencer  rifle  was  brought,  and  from  another  a  brace  of  navy 
revolvers.  He  was  impatient  to  be  gone.  A  mile  from  his 
house  the  trio  halted.  "Old  man,"  Frank  James  began  in  that 
slow,  deliberate,  finely  modulated  voice  of  his,  which  was  all 
the  more  dangerous  because  it  had  so  often  before  preceded 
sudden  death,  "we  had  not  the  heart  to  kill  you  nearer  home, 
but  if  you  would  pray,  pray  now.  We  are  the  James  boys!" 
Instantly,  and  against  each  temple  a  cocked  pistol  was  pressed. 
Powerless,  but  not  paralyzed,  the  old  man  essayed  to  explain 
himself.  "I  believed  at  the  first  you  were  Federals,"  he  said,  and 
that  you  had  come  to  kill  me.  What  I  have  said  I  have  said  to 
save  myself.  These  are  dreadful  times,  gentlemen,  and  some- 
times we  have  to  be  one  thing  and  sometimes  another.  Do  not 
kill  me,  for  the  love  of  God."  Two  pistol  shots,  deadly  and 
close  together,  was  the  only  answer  to  the  old  man's  prayer. 

Gen.  Bacon  Montgomery  has  been  accused  by  some  of  the 
Guerrillas,  and  unjustly  accused,  of  the  murder  of  Arch 
Clements.  It  is  true  that  he  was  in  command  of  the  militia  at 
Lexington  at  the  time  he  was  killed,  but  he  was  in  no  manner 


366  NOTED  GUEEEILLAS,  OB 

responsible  for  his  death,  and  would  have  saved  him  if  he  could 
have  done  so.  It  was  Montgomery's  fortune  to  have  to  do  with 
a  desperate  following.  The  militia  commanded  by  him  were 
bad  men,  uncontrollable  men,  ex-Federals  and  ex-rebels,  and 
totally  without  honor  or  civilized  impulses.  The  bulk  of  them 
were  the  dregs  of  the  civil  war — the  Thenardiers  of  a  struggle 
that  had  its  Austerlitz  as  well  as  its  Waterloo.  He  was  a 
brave,  generous,  liberal-minded  man,  individually,  and  he 
strove  with  might  and  main  to  protect  private  property  and 
save  human  life.  That  he  was  not  always  successful  was 
because  almost  unsupported  in  a  band  which  carried  into  peace 
times  the  very  worst  of  the  passions  of  the  strife,  he  could  not 
in  every  instance  enforce  obedience  or  punish  the  viciousness  of 
his  desperadoes.  Yet  he  did  what  he  could  energetically  and  fear- 
lessly. Others  in  his  place  would  have  been  monsters.  Mont- 
gomery saved  many  a  life  that  even  the  people  among  whom  he 
was  stationed  knew  nothing  of,  and  many  a  house  from  destruc- 
tion that  the  owners  to  this  day  do  not  know  were  ever  threat- 
ened. Dave  Poole  had  been  into  Lexington  with  his  Guerrillas 
and  had  gone  out  soberly  and  in  order,  Arch  Clements  marching 
with  him.  Outside  of  the  city  he  met  a  comrade,  Young 
Hicklin,  who  was  going  in,  and  Clements  turned  about  and 
returned  with  him  to  the  City  Hotel.  While  drinking  at  the 
bar  they  were  fired  upon,  and  each  made  a  rush  for  his  horse, 
fighting  as  they  ran.  Probably  two  hundred  shots  were  fired  at 
them,  and  Clements  was  killed,  Hicklin  making  his  escape  by 
sheer  desperate  fighting  and  running.  Montgomery  knew 
nothing  even  of  the  cause  of  this  firing  until  the  deadly  work  had 
been  done.  He  deplored  it,  but  he  neither  counselled  it  nor 
approved  of  it.  A  lot  of  drunken  cut-throats  did  the  work 
upon  two  isolated  men,  cut  off  from  their  comrades,  which — 
man  to  man — they  would  not  have  attempted  for  the  county  of 
Lafayette.  Montgomery  was  too  brave  a  man  for  such  devil's 
doings.  He  felt  that  the  war  was  over,  and  he  was  anxious 
that  the  Guerrillas  should  come  back  into  peaceful  life  and 
become  again  a  part  of  the  peaceful  economy  of  the  local 
administration.  In  such  mood  he  treated  with  Poole,  and  in 
such  mood  he  would  have  treated  with  Clements  if  it  had  been 
permitted  for  him  to  have  encountered  Clements.  It  was  not 
to  be,  however,  and  this  young,  superb,  almost  invincible 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  367 

Guerrilla,  died  as  he  had  lived,  one  of  the  most  desperate  men 
the  country  ever  produced. 

In  the  last  terrible  days  of  the  war,  isolated  and  individual 
deeds  of  daring  were  done  everywhere.  Coming  up  from  the 
South,  Doc  Campbell  led  a  little  party  from  Yellvill j,  Arkansas, 
composed  of  Given  Horn,  Al  Scott,  George  Maddox  and  James 
Stewart.  Almost  every  day  there  was  a  fight.  Campbell  was  a 
born  scout,  who  saw  in  the  night  and  rode  fastest  when  it  was 
darkest.  At  the  crossing  of  the  Osage  river,  and  while  they  were 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream  swimming  and  pushing  a  sort  of  a 
raft  ahead  of  them  on  which  were  their  clothes,  arms  and  ammu- 
nition, twenty  Federals  gained  suddenly  the  southern  bank  and 
fired  upon  the  helpless  men.  Indifferent  to  the  bullets  pattering 
about  them  like  hailstones,  these  four  desperate  men  kept  evenly 
on,  stroke  upon  stroke.  Presently  Horn  spoke  quick  to 
Campbell:  "Doc  I  am  hard  hit  and  I  cannot  goon.  Help  me 
if  you  can;  if  you  cannot,  save  yourself."  "I  will  stay  with 
you,  Given,"  was  the  reply,  irreverent  it  may  be,  but  splendid 
with  devotion,  "until  hell  freezes  over."  Then  he  put  one  arm 
about  Horn,  while  George  Maddox  put  another,  and  thus 
against  a  strong  current  and  in  the  face  of  a  furious  fire  they 
bore  him  safely  to  the  shore,  standing  naked  there  together  with 
Stewart,  and  fighting  back  the  twenty  militia  until  Horn  tied  up 
his  wound,  which  was  in  the  left  arm,  dressed  himself  and  got 
upon  his  horse.  Then  they  too  leisurely  performed  their 
own  toilettes,  stopping  every  now  and  then  and  at  the  adjust- 
ment of  every  garment,  to  reply  by  a  rattling  volley  to  the  steady 
fusillade  of  the  persevering  enemy.  Before  the  affair  was 
finished,  Campbell  himself  was  wounded,  but  not  too  badly  to 
ride,  nor  to  continue  as  the  unerring  guide  of  these  determined 
men. 

A  squad  of  militia  belonging  to  Capt.  John  W.  Sheets'  com- 
pany surprised  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Richard  Kinney,  in  Jack- 
son county,  a  crippled  Guerrilla  named  Charles  Saunders. 
Some  little  while  before  Anderson  with  ten  men  had  had  a 
severe  fight  near  Hopewell  Church,  in  Lafayette  county,  and 
Saunders  had  been  badly  shot.  When  he  saw  that  his  hiding- 
place  had  been  discovered  he  crawled  out  into  the  yard  in  order 
that  none  of  the  family  might  be  hurt.  Death  was  near  to  him, 
but  a  high  courtesy  and  considerateness  abode  with  him  to  the 


368  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

end.  He  would  face  it  alone,  crippled,  surrounded,  doomed. 
He  had  four  loaded  pistols  with  him,  and  in  suggestive  Guerrilla 
vernacular  he  meant  to  "  sell  out."  As  soon  as  the  militia  saw 
him  hobbling  to  the  garden  fence  they  opened  their  fire. 
Saunders  reached  this  fence,  fell  over  rather  than  climbed  down 
upon  the  other  side,  and  held  it  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  It 
took  that  length  of  time  to  kill  him  at  long  range.  Twice  they 
charged  him,  and  twice  his  accurate  and  deadly  fire  drove  them 
back.  Seven  balls  were  put  into  his  body  before  he  fell  for  the 
last  time  and  never  to  get  up  again.  Four  Federals  were  killed 
and  five  wounded,  and  a  single  load  remained  the  last  of  twenty- 
four.  Too  weak  to  fire  this,  the  hammer  of  his  revolver  was  at 
a  half-cock  in  his  stiffened  fingers  when  the  enemy  reached  him 
and  found  the  Guerrilla  dead,  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  a  look  of 
awful  menace  on  his  pinched,  yet  bronzed  and  weather-beaten 
face. 

At  the  house  of  Richard  White,  in  Jackson  county,  another 
savage  border  tragedy  was  born.  Frank  Gregg,  Thomas  and 
Ambrose  Maxwell,  Sam  Constable,  and  Ed  Hink  were  sur- 
rounded by  fifty -two  Federals.  Would  they  surrender? 
4 'Never!"  shouted  Gregg,  in  a  voice  that  might  have  been 
heard  a  mile,  "  never  while  there  is  a  leg  to  stand  on  or  a  bullet 
to  kill.  Look  out,  for  we  are  coming!"  As  he  cried  thus, 
jibing  and  hilarious,  the  five  savage  Guerrillas  broke  out  from 
the  house,  shooting.  It  was  about  twenty  yards  to  their  horses, 
but  they  did  not  make  haste  towards  them.  Side  by  side  and 
steady  as  men  plowing  in  a  fallow  field,  they  marched  and 
fought,  taking  and  returning  the  fire  of  the  fifty-two.  Presently 
Hink  leaped  from  his  feet  into  the  air  and  fell  forward  upon  his 
face  and  as  a  log  might  fall  from  a  log-sled  to  the  ground. 
Gregg  stooped  and  turned  him  over.  A  huge  round  hole  where 
the  heart  was  told  the  tale  without  the  trouble  of  a  further 
searching.  "  Poor  Hink !"  sighed  his  comrade,  perfectly  uncon- 
cerned in  the  pelting  bullet  rain,  "he  ran  a  long  time,  but  he 
died  at  last  with  his  boots  on."  Then  Gregg  unbuckled  the 
pistol  belt  and  strode  forward  with  the  weapons  of  his  dead 
comrade,  a  giant.  Close  to  the  horses  Constable  was  seen  to 
stagger,  fall  upon  one  knee,  rise  again,  and  then  fall  the  second 
time.  By  this  time  the  Federals  had  come  to  within  fifty  yards, 
yelling  and  shooting.  Gregg  halted  by  Constable,  fired  five 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BORDER 

•#  • 

shots  in  quick  succession  at  the  nearest  enemy,  knocked  two 
from  their  saddles,  demoralized  to  a  certain  extent  the  balance, 
and  gave  place  to  the  Maxwell  brothers  who  kept  up  the  fight 
desperately.  Gregg  spoke  to  Constable,  u  Where  are  you  hit, 
Sam?  Speak  quick,  for  if  this  thing  lasts  much  longer,  you,, 
and  I,  and  all  of  us  will  need  as  many  lives  as  a  cat."  "In 
the  right  shoulder,  Frank,  but  I  can  ride  if  you  will  put  me  upon 
my  horse."  Frank  Gregg  was  a  giant  in  size  and  in  strength, 
and  he  lifted  Constable  in  his  arms  as  though  he  were  lifting  a 
sack  of  feathers.  Just  as  he  straightened  up  with  his  burden, 
a  rifle  bullet  knocked  his  hat  off.  u  Better  the  hat  than  the 
head,"  was  the  dry  retort,  "but  I  must  have  back  my  hat  for 
9,11  that."  He  put  Constable  upon  his  horse  and  bade  him  ride 
ahead — by  and  by  he  would  come  along  after  him.  Then  he 
lazily  walked  back  to  where  his  hat  was,  picked  it  up,  brushed 
from  it  some  specks  of  dirt,  smoothed  out  its  creases  and 
wrinkles,  called  to  the  Maxwells  to  get  speedily  to  horse,  took 
his  own  time  to  mount  himself,  and  finally  rode  away  at  a  walk 
and  in  splendid  bravado,  firing  back  and  with  deadly  effect 
wherever  he  was  crowded,  or  whenever  an  attempt  was  made  to 
make  his  wounded  comrade  ride  faster  than  he  thought  it  would 
be  good  for  his  hurt.  The  pursuit  was  scarcely  a  pursuit.  Evi- 
dently the  enemy  were  timid — were  afraid  of  what  the  brush 
might  contain — of  something  ahead  or  in  the  unknown  that 
savored  of  stratagem  or  ambuscade. 

Captain  John  Rudd  was  one  of  the  coolest  scouts,  spies, 
guides,  and  Guerrilla  fighters  Shelby  ever  recruited,  trained,  or 
let  loose  upon  the  enemy.  He  entered  Missouri  five  times  from 
the  South,  bringing  and  carrying  to  and  fro  a  multitude  of 
letters.  First  and  last  he  conducted  safely  into  the  Confederate 
lines  a  regiment  of  recruits  from  Missouri.  He  knew  every 
road  South,  every  path,  trail,  direction,  water-course,  ford, 
friendly  stopping-place,  or  inaccessible  fastness.  If  he  had  to 
fight,  he  fought  savagely.  If  he  could  not  go  round  an  object, 
he  went  over  it.  If  there  was  no  other  way  to  get  through,  he 
cut  through.  When  he  had  to  kill  he  always  made  a  clean  job 
of  it.  There  were  five  Rudds  in  Shelby's  old  brigade,  and  the 
five  were  brothers.  Better  soldiers  never  followed,  and  braver 
ones  never  defended  a  flag.  John  Rudd  had  as  many  disguises 
as  a  detective,  as  many  stratagems  as  an  Indian,  and  as  many 
24 


370  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR' 

voices  as  a  mocking-bird.  Once  lie  did  this  manner  of  a  deed : 
Going  South  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  recruits  for  Shelby's 
Division,  he  captured  one  day  seven  wagons  loaded  with  Federal 
clothing.  Right  then  and  there  he  made  his  men  take  off  one 
•set  of  garments  and  put  on  another.  When  the  dressing  was 
done  instead  of  a  speckled  or  a  variegated  column,  there  was  a 
column  as  blue  as  a  field  in  the  spring  sown  with  blue  birds. 
Seventeen  miles  from  the  place  of  the  metamorphosis  and  close 
to  Yellville,  in  Arkansas,  there  was  a  militia  cavalry  camp,  two 
hundred  strong.  Rudd  reached  it  about  sunset.  In  advance 
with  ten  men,  he  rode  up  to  the  Federal  picquets  and  made 
himself  known.  He  was  Major  William  Thatcher,  of  the  22d 
Missouri,  especially  commissioned  to  inspect  all  the  posts  along 
the  border,  arid  to  report  what  was  needed  in  the  way  of  arms, 
ammunition,  and  supplies.  The  officer  on  duty  at  this  camp 
was  a  Lieutenant  Jackson,  from  Fayetteville,  Arkansas,  who 
reported  promptly  to  Rudd  and  awaited  his  orders.  "  Lieuten- 
ant," said  the  ostensible  Thatcher,  "form  your  command  in 
twenty  minutes,  without  arms,  in  front  of  my  quarters,  that  I 
may  first  inspect  their  personal  appearance.  After  that  I  will 
look  at  your  guns."  Then  he  went  from  soldier  to  soldier  in 
his  own  ranks  and  told  them  of  his  programme.  They  were  to 
keep  cool,  quiet,  vigilant,  and  obey  his  slightest  nod  or  motion. 
A  line  was  formed.  Two  hundred  stalwart  militiamen  dressed 
up  in  front  of  Rudd's  quarters,  a  huge  white  oak  tree,  and 
waited  a  little  curiously  to  see  what  the  new  comer,  in  the  uni- 
form of  a  major,  wanted  so  far  down  among  the  mountains  and 
the  outlying  militia.  They  were  well  informed.  Rudd  passed 
slowly  along  the  front  of  the  line,  looking  once  in  the  face  of 
each  soldier  there.  Then  he  passed  along  the  rear  of  the  line 
to  about  half  its  distance,  and  until  he  had  gained  the  point 
nearest  to  his  own  troops,  when  he  lifted  his  hat  quickly  and 
waved  it  once.  Instantly  the  Confederates  poured  out  from 
among  their  horses,  armed,  resolute,  ready  for  work.  There 
was  some  confusion  at  first  among  the  Federals,  but  Rudd 
rushed  through  their  ranks,  gained  their  front,  and  cried  aloud 
so  that  all  might  hear  him:  "Keep  your  places  if  you  would 
keep  your  scalps.  We  are  Confederate  soldiers  clothed  as  Fed- 
erals, but  we  will  not  harm  you  if  there  is  no  resistance.  Take 
but  a  step  towards  your  guns,  and  we'll  murder  you  lijje  cattle!" 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  37 J 

Not  a  man  stirred.  Some  of  the  Confederates  seized  the  mus- 
kets, some  rushed  to  where  the  horses  were,  and  in  an  hour 
more  Rudd,  without  the  firing  of  a  single  shot,  was  hurrying  on 
into  Arkansas  with  two  hundred  prisoners,  two  hundred  and 
eleven  horses  fit  for  service,  seven  wagons  loaded  with  valuable 
supplies,  over  two  hundred  cavalry  carbines  and  revolvers,  and 
five  ammunition  wagons  filled  with  precious  ammunition.  He 
was  thanked  in  general  orders  for  his  skill  and  coolness,  and 
sent  back  into  Missouri  with  important  dispatches  to  several 
officers  who  were  recruiting  in  the  State. 

Before  Gooly  Robinson  was  killed  he  performed  many  desper- 
ate deeds  of  bravado  and  valor,  but  none  that  surpased  the  fol- 
lowing in  hardihood  or  abandonment.  A  desperate  Federal 
scout,  whose  soubriquet  was  Ben  McCoulloch,  was  known  to 
many  upon  the  border  as  a  bold,  bad,  cruel,  relentless  man. 
He  killed,  burned,  stole,  plundered,  fought,  and  was  not  afraid. 
If  he  could  have  found  good  backing  anywhere  in  the  ranks  of 
the  militia,  he  would  have  made  his  mark  broad  and  bloody. 
Single-handed,  he  did  not  give  back  from  any  man,  Guerrilla  or 
Confederate.  He  dressed  in  fringed  buck-skin,  carried  four 
dragoon  revolvers,  rode  a  coal  black  horse,  and  hunted  at  the 
head  of  fifty  Federals.  Quantrell  had  sought  for  him  once  or 
twice,  but  failed  to  find  him.  Todd  sent  him  a  challenge  once 
to  meet  him  on  a  certain  day  at  the  head  of  fifty  men,  pledging 
himself  to  meet  him  with  twenty-five.  If  McCoulloch  received 
the  message,  he  never  replied  to  it.  Indeed,  if  he  knew  Todd 
as  Todd  really  was,  it  was  no  disgrace  to  him  that  he  did  not 
reply.  One  day,  however,  this  man  of  the  soubriquet — this 
buck-skin  Ben  McCoulloch  —  went  a  step  too  far.  Gooly 
Robinson  had  a  widowed  aunt  living  in  Johnson  county  whose 
house  McCoulloch  burnt,  whose  horses  he  confiscated,  whose 
cattle  he  drove  off,  and  whose  entire  substance  he  wantonly  and 
wickedly  wasted.  The  bereft  woman  told  the  story  of  her  ruin 
truly  to  her  nephew,  and  the  nephew  dressed  himself  as  a 
Federal  soldier,  mounted  a  horse  as  swift  as  any  other  Fed- 
eral's horse,  cleaned  a  double-barrel  shot-gun  thorougly, 
loaded  it  with  buck-shot,  buckled  on  his  pistols,  and  went  a 
man  hunting.  The  second  day  out  he  met  full  in  the  big 
road  a  column  of  Federal  cavalry,  and  rode  boldly  up  to 
within  twenty  yards  of  it.  Ben  McCoulloch  was  at  its  head, 


872  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

gay  with  fringes  and  furbelows.  One  man  against  fifty — alone, 
unsupported,  indifferent  to  consequences,  and  reckless  to  a 
degree  exceptional  even  for  him,  Robinson  fired  both  barrels  of 
his  gun  full  into  the  bosom  of  McCoulloch,  literally  tearing  his 
heart  out,  and  killing  and  wounding  five  of  those  who  were  next 
to  and  nearest  to  him.  So  daring  was  the  deed,  so  sudden  was 
the  fire,  so  fatal  was  the  aim,  that  the  savage  Guerrilla  had 
turned  his  horse  and  was  dashing  away  like  the  wind  ere  a 
single  volley  was  fired  after  him  or  a  single  horseman  started  in 
pursuit.  Of  course  he  was  neither  harmed  nor  overtaken,  the 
strangest  thing  of  all,  however,  being  the  fact  that  McCoulloch's 
splendid  black  charger  sprang  away  from  the  Federal  column 
when  its  rider  fell  and  rushed  furiously  after  Robinson  until  it 
overtook  and  ranged  up  alongside  of  his  own  horse,  keeping 
pace  with  him  and  submitting  afterwards  to  capture  and 
control. 

Oil  Shepherd  was  a  young  hero  who  survived  the  war,  and 
who  was  killed  in  Jackson  county,  in  1868,  by  a  Vigilance 
Committee.  They  went  one  day  to  his  home  near  Lea's 
Summit,  to  capture  him  for  some  alleged  offence  ;  but  he  would 
not  surrender.  Shot  seven  times,  he  fought  to  the  death.  Once 
he  led  something  almost  like  a  forlorn  hope  up  from  Arkansas. 
It  rained  on  him  every  day  for  eight  days,  and  he  fought  every 
day  for  eleven  days.  Andy  Walker  was  his  second  in  com- 
mand, one  of  Quantrell's  oldest  and  best  soldiers,  and  a  bosom 
friend.  Probably  Walker  knew  more  of  Quantrell's  secrets 
than  any  other  Guerrilla  along  the  border.  He  never  talked. 
He  was  twice  noted,  once  for  his  reticence,  and  once  for  his 
deadly  skill  with  the  revolver.  In  battle  he  neither  smiled, 
shouted,  nor  spoke.  He  killed.  In  camp  he  neither  laughed, 
sang,  nor  was  boisterous.  He  watched.  On  duty  he  neither 
sat  down  nor  slept.  It  might  be  said  of  him  that  he  was 
perpetually  in  ambush.  If  one  had  to  fight  for  a  crown  with 
twenty  picked  men,  Walker  would  have  been  one  of  the  twenty. 
En  route  up  from  the  South,  Walker  in  advance,  Shepherd 
Came  one  day  to  a  house  in  Taney  county  that  was  more  of  a 
cbarnel  house  than  a  habitation.  Eleven  militiamen  were  about 
the  premises.  Down  stairs  the  old  man  was  lying  in  a  pool  of 
blood.  Some  feet  from  the  back  door  the  old  man's  son-in  law 
had  just  died,  a  great  powder- blackened  hole  above  his  left  eye. 


GEORGE  SHEPHERD. 


OLL  SHEPHERD. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER         373 

The  old  woman  was  wild  with  agony,  and  some  little  grand- 
children, scared  speechless,  had  hidden  themselves  under  the 
bed.  Crazed  with  grief,  a  daughter,  and  the  wife  of  the 
youngest  murdered  man,  had  fled  to  the  woods.  Shepherd  had 
fifteen  men  with  him,  dressed  all  of  them  in  Federal  clothing. 
As  he  rode  up  the  militia  started  to  run,  but  seeing  the  uniform 
of  the  Guerrillas,  turned  about  and  came  smiling  to  the  fence  in 
front  of  the  house.  The  Guerrillas  dismounted  and  entered  in. 
They  did  not  need  to  be  told  what  was  meant  by  the  two  dead 
men  lying  there,  the  crouching  children,  the  frantic  grand- 
mother, the  poor  crazed  mother  shrieking  in  the  woods.  As 
they  mingled  again  with  the  militia  it  might  have  been  noticed 
that  eleven  Guerrillas  stood  close  to  eleven  Federals.  Shepherd 
gave  the  word,  and  there  was  a  single  volley.  Not  a  bullet 
missed.  Eleven  men  fell  as  one  man.  If  the  earth  had  opened 
and  swallowed  up  the  victims,  the  sacrifice  could  neither  have 
been  more  crushing  nor  more  instantaneous.  As  the  Guerrillas 
rode  away  the  dead-house  had  become  to  be  a  sepulchre. 

In  Clay  county  and  just  arrived  he  had  come  safely  through 
fire  and  tempest,  when  Oil  Shepherd  was  surrounded  at 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Fox,  and  furiously  attacked.  Captain 
Rogers  and  one  hundred  militia  were  after  him.  He  broke  out, 
rode  through  mud  knee  deep  for  ten  miles,  and  fought  every 
step  of  the  way,  losing  two  o£  his  best  men,  and  two  brothers 
at  that,  Alexander  and  Arthur  Dever.  Alexander  was  only 
eighteen  years  of  age,  but  a  veteran  in  every  soldierly  thing. 
Arthur  had  served  intrepidly  under  Bragg  and  Joe  Johnston, 
and  was  noted  among  the  Guerrillas  for  a  certain  stubbornness 
in  battle  that  nothing  could  overcome.  Both  were  buried  in  the 
same  grave,  separated  neither  in  life  nor  in  death. 

At  Dover,  in  Lafayette  county,  there  was  a  physician  who 
was  also  a  man  without  fear.  He  was  under  the  ban  because  he 
penetrated  the  brush  in  search  of  wounded  Guerrillas  and  healed 
them  there.  Perhaps  he  also  helped  to  hide  them  as  well. 
This  man — Dr.  S.  T.  Meng — was  a  charitable,  God  fearing, 
conscientious  man,  who  prayed  now  and  then,  who  preached 
occasionally,  -who  felt  to  stir  within  him,  as  the  strife  deepened 
and  became  more  and  more  savage,  something  of  that  fell  spirit 
of  Moses  when  Moses  rose  up  in  his  wrath  and  slew  the 
Egyptian.  Dr.  Meng,  however — and  notwithstanding  the  provo- 


374  NOTED  GUEKBILLAS,  OS 

cations  that  he  had  over  and  over  again  to  take  up  his  gun  and 
go  to  the  highway — healed  instead  of  killing,  saved  instead  of 
taking  life.  Federal  or  Guerrilla,  Union  man  or  Secessionist, 
good  man  or  bad  man,  if  either  was  in  extremity,  the  calm, 
patient  face  peered  at  him  just  the  same,  and  the  quick,  skilled 
hands  did  what  had  to  be  done  for  him  without  homily  or 
upbraiding.  One  day  he  was  deep  in  the  brush  waiting  upon  a 
wounded  Guerrilla.  There  came  of  a  sudden  the  rattling  of 
scabbards,  the  ringing  of  horses'  fee1-,  the  noisy  clamor 
of  contending  voices,  and  the  peculiar  crashing,  swishing  soun  1 
of  heavy  bodies  forcing  their  way  through  heavy  underbrush. 
As  a  turkey-hunter,  Dr.  Meng  had  been  famous  in  two  States. 
From  the  gliding  of  a  chipmunk,  or  the  pattering  of  a  squirrel, 
or  the  drumming  of  a  pheasant,  or  the  whirring  of  a  partridge, 
or  the  leaping  of  a  buck,  he  knew  all  sounds  the  woods  gave 
birth  to,  he  could  name  all  approaching  things  without  turning 
his  head.  He  was  sitting  close  to  the  Guerrilla,  who  was  griev- 
ously hurt.  "They  are  here,"  he  said  to  the  wounded  man, 
coolly,  uand  if  we  are  discovered  we  are  dead.  Can  you  lie 
still  and  be  ridden  over  without  crying  out?'*  "I  can  be  roasted 
without  crying  out.  Try  me!"  Rapidly,  yet  so  quietly  and  so 
noiselessly  that  even  the  birds  in  the  trees  overhead  might  not 
have  heard  him,  Dr.  Meng  cut  a  whole  armfull  of  bushes,  thick 
with  leaves,  and  covered  completely  the  body  of  the  prostrate 
man  lying  at  full  length  upon  his  blanket  and  as  still  as  the 
silence  which  follows  death.  Two  feet  away  from  him  any  eyes 
other  than  a  lynx's  eyes  must  surely  have  failed  to  discover  this 
hidden  Guerrilla.  Then  Dr.  Meng  glided  quietly  away  into 
the  thick  undergrowth  and  was  for  a  moment  lost  to  sight. 
Abreast  in  a  single  line,  sixty  Federals  were  scouting  through 
the  timber,  hunting  for  some  of  Poole's  men  who  had  been 
reported  as  wounded  in  Lexington  and  hidden  somewhere  in  the 
river  bluffs  close  to  Dover.  If  they  held  on  as  they  were  they 
would  surely  ride  over  James  Welby,  the  maimed  man  lying 
there,  bis  left  arm  shattered  almost  to  the  shoulder,  and  his  jaw- 
bone fractured.  James  Welby  was  one  of  Poole's  men,  desper- 
ately wounded  in  a  recent  combat,  and  Dr.  Meng,  with  unfal- 
tering devotion,  had  braved  proscription,  imprisonment,  hourly 
danger,  and  violent  death  to  save  him,  if  human  skill  could  save 
him,  and  restore  him  cured  to  his  savage  leader.  The  Federals 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  375 

were  within  ten  paces  of  Welby  and  still  advancing,  when  a 
single  voice  in  their  rear,  loud  and  high  and  penetrating,  called 
out  to  them  to  turn  about.  It  was  Meng's  voice,  without  a 
quaver  or  a  tremor.  Unobserved,  he  had  watched  them  ride 
until  in  his  own  mind  he  had  concluded  that  they  would 
undoubtedly  ride  over  his  patient,  and  then  to  halt  them  and 
divert  them  from  their  course  he  came  boldly  out  from  behind 
his  cover  and  risked  every  thing  upon  the  single  chance  of  a 
defiant  bearing.  They  did  halt  and  turn  about.  Meanwhile 
Meng  had  mounted  his  own  horse,  which  had  been  tied  back 
from  where  the  wounded  man  was  resting,  and  rode  to  meet  the 
Federals,  a  shot-gun  crossed  before  him  on  the  saddle.  "What 
is  your  business  here?"  the  leader  asked,  with  the  air  of  an 
educated  tyrant  crossed  upon  a  born  highwayman.  "My  bus- 
iness," the  doctor  blandly  replied,  "is  a  very  simple  business 
indeed.  I  came  out  to  kill  a  few  squirrels  for  a  squirrel  pie. 
Any  orders  against  that?"  "There  are  orders  against  carrying 
guns  and  dodging  about  in  the  bush."  "But  I  am  not  dodging 
about.  I  saw  you  and  I  hailed  you.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that 
if  you  were  looking  for  rebel  Guerrillas  you  were  looking  in  the 
wrong  part  of  the  country."  "How  do  you  know?"  "Because  I 
am  a  physician,  and  I  ride  everywhere."  "Aha!  And  so  you 
are  a  doctor.  You  wait  on  all  alike,  I  reckon ;  you  give  physic 
to  all  alike,  don't  you?  You  swear  by  the  rebel  and  you  swear 
by  the  Federal,  I  make  so  bold  as  to  say ;  you  are  indigenous 
to  this  soil,  you  are;  you'll  do  first-rate  for  a  Guerrilla,  won't 
you?  Answer  quick,  lest  it  is  worse  for  you."  Dr.  Meng  did 
not  even  change  color.  Used  to  either  extreme  of  fortune  and 
having  an  abiding  faith  in  the  good  God,  he  argued  the  case. 
Meanwhile  the  Federal  commander,  while  he  had  been  talking 
had  also  been  riding,  and  before  he  had  finished  his  tirade  he 
was  several  hundred  yards  back  from  the  wounded  soldier. 
Whatever  else  was  to  happen,  Welby  at  least  was  safe.  His 
sturdy  old  physician  had  taken  the  chances  of  getting  himself 
into  trouble  that  he  might  make  a  profitable  diversion  in  favor 
of  his  patient.  Presently  the  doctor  replied  to  the  officer: 
"Suppose  a  gun  was  to  accidentally  go  off  this  moment  in  your 
column  and  hurt  grievously  one  of  your  men.  If  I  did  not  help 
him,  wait  upon  him,  sa/e  him  if  I  could  and  cure  him  soundly, 
would  you  not  make  me  do  it,  or  at  least  do  my  best  towards 


376  NOTED  aUEEMILLAS,  OH 

it?"  "I  would."  "If  I  refused  you  would  shoot  me?"  "Even 
so,  I  would  shoot  you."  "Then  as  you  would  do  in  extremity, 
so  would  do  the  Guerrillas.  How — standing  as  I  do  between 
the  devil  and  the  deep  sea — how,  I  say,  am  I  to  make  fish  of 
one  and  flesh  of  the  other?  Answer  me  this,  for  so  sure  as  you 
are  here  beside  me  it  has  been  a  proposition  that  has  puzzled  me 
sorely."  The  Federal  officer — born  robber  as  he  was  and  cruel 
— was  a  logical,  practical,  sensible  fellow,  not  averse  to  an 
argument,  and  not  indisposed  to  logical  things.  He  pondered 
for  a  mile  and  more  over  what  Meng  had  said  to  him,  and  then 
when  the  two,  still  riding  together,  reached  the  main  road,  the 
Federal  going  towards  Lexington  and  the  doctor  towards 
Dover,  the  Federal  left  instead  of  a  benediction  an  ultimatum : 
"What  you  have  argued  is  logical,  but  not  loyal.  If  in  any 
manner  hereafter  you  give  aid  and  encouragement  to  the  enemy, 
and  if  after  so  doing  I  ever  come  to  hear  of  it  and  to  lay  hands 
upon  you,  I  will  hang  you  to  the  nearest  tree,  so  help  me  God  !" 
In  six  days  after  this  savage  threat,  and  while  riding  at  the  head 
of  a  column  on  a  hunt  for  Guerrillas  south  of  Wellington,  this 
Lieutenant,  Jimison  by  name,  and  eight  of  his  troopers  were 
encountered  by  Todd  and  slaughtered  to  a  man. 

At  other  times  and  after  other  fights,  this  proscribed  yet  sin- 
gularly devoted  physician,  went  here  and  there  and  continually, 
carrying  healing  to  many  grievous  hurts  and  comfort  to  many  a 
crippled  soldier.  Twice,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  his  own  life, 
he  faced  the  fire  of  a  Federal  force  to  do  his  duty  as  a  Christian 
man,  and  twice  when  none  other  would  go  to  the  wild  beast 
bleeding  in  his  lair,  this  physician  went  with  splints,  and  oint- 
ments, and  food,  and  raiment  and  hopeful  words  from  that 
book  which  somehow  is  a  blessed  book  to  all  when  by  the 
bare  putting  out  of  the  hand  waters  of  the  eternal  river  can  be 
felt  cold  to  the  shoulder. 

There  was  one  man  in  the  Trans-Mississippi  Department  who 
understood  the  war  thoroughly  and  perfectly.  He  was  the 
friend  and  the  correspondent  of  President  Davis.  He  was  the 
confidant  and  the  adviser  of  Kirby  Smith.  He  was  a  scholar,  a 
diplomatist,  a  statesman,  and  a  soldier.  The  revolution  never 
deceived  him,  because  he  never  deceived  himself.  Events  and 
not  enthusiasm  impressed  themselves  upon  the  placid  surface  of 
a  mind  that  was  singularly  clear,  penetrating,  exacting,  and 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  377 

analytical.  He  looked  upon  life  as  too  short  for  little  things. 
He  had  a  motto  paraphrased  from  the  French  that  nothing  suc- 
ceeded like  success.  Others  had  their  ideals,  their  hopes,  their 
fears,  their  superstitions,  their  whimsical  likes  or  dislikes,  their 
hours  of  boisterousness  or  gloom,  their  playfulness  like  a  kitten, 
or  their  sullenness  like  an  owl,  but  this  man — granite  in  the  hour 
of  peril  and  colossal  in  the  moment  of  extremity — had  that 
grasp  of  intellect  and  that  fixedness  of  purpose  which,  like 
Loyola,  would  have  plucked  out  an  eye  for  the  cause,  or  like 
Curtius,  would  have  leaped,  full  statured  and  panoplied,  into 
any  gulf  that  because  of  the  closing  through  the  sacrifice  would 
have  saved  the  South.  This  man  was  Governor  Thomas  C. 
Reynolds.  The  Guerrilla  fight  was  a  fight  repugnant  to  every 
idea  of  civilized  war.  He  condemned  it,  deplored  it,  sought  to 
break  it  up,  strove  to  divert  its  terrible  energies  into  legitimate 
channels ;  but  when  it  passed  beyond  his  control  and  began  to 
assume  proportions  that  were  as  ferocious  as  they  were  unex- 
pected, he  saw  beneath  the  black  flag  an  unconquerable  spirit  of 
resistance,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  fastnesses  and  the  ambus- 
cades a  splendid  valor  that  made  Thermopylses,  and  he  calmly 
weighed  these  prodigies  of  Western  heroism  and  as  calmly 
watched  the  passing  of  the  storm  cloud  without  deploring  or 
condemning  its  thunderbolts.  He  stood  between  the  Guerrilla 
and  the  native  Confederate  authorities  of  the  Trans-Mississippi 
Department.  There  came  times  when  it  was  whispered  that  upon 
the  Guerrilla  bands  fleeing  South  for  brief  shelter  and  succor, 
there  should  be  done  the  work  that  was  done  upon  the  Strelitz, 
the  Jannissaries,  and  the  Mamalukes.  Two  men  stood  as  two 
ramparts  between  the  haters  and  the  hated — Reynolds  and 
Shelby ;  Reynolds  because  to  the  inexorable  logic  of  his  unob- 
scured  mind  the  Revolution  had  need  to  have  its  excesses,  and 
Shelby  because  there  was  a  touch  of  the  tiger  in  his  own  compo- 
sition, and  because  no  living  thing  that  struck  and  bled  for  the 
South  should  have  a  hair  plucked  out  even  though  that  thing 
were  a  dog  as  lousy  as  Lazarus. 

Instantaneous  in  action,  Governor  Reynolds  was  also  as  im- 
movable as  he  was  rapid.  His  processes  of  thought  were  so 
thoroughly  perspicuous,  and  the  reach  of  his  analysis  so  wide 
and  withal  so  just  and  penetrating,  that  what  might  have  come 
to  others  as  the  result  of  days  of  mental  conflict  or  discussion, 


378  NOTED  GUEBIilLLAS,  OS 

came  to  him  as  intuition  comes  to  genius.  He  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  border  must  of  necessity  have  Guerrillas,  and  that  any 
effort  made  by  the  Confederate  authorities  to  extripate  them 
would  be  an  effort  little  less  injurious  than  the  unchecked 
revolt  of  an  army  corps  in  an  army.  He  believed  conscien- 
tiously that  this  species  of  warfare  was  a  grievous  injury  to  the 
Southern  cause ;  he  believed  that  it  encouraged  desertion  and 
called  down  vengeance  upon  the  innocent  and  the  unprotected ; 
he  believed  that  isolated  fighting,  no  matter  how  desperate  or 
unsparing,  was  a  useless  sacrifice  of  priceless  material;  he 
believed  that  the  destruction  which  would  inevitably  come  upon 
the  country  made  the  theatre  of  savage  combats  would  out- 
weigh the  damage  done  to  those  who  invaded  it ;  he  believed 
that  campaigns  carried  on  by  regular,  soldiers  were  the  cam- 
paigns which  decided  all  appeals  to  the  sword ;  he  believed  that 
Quantrell  should  be  in  the  regular  army  with  his  men,  and  Todd, 
Anderson,  Taylor,  Blunt,  Yager,  Thrailkill,  Poole,  and  all  the 
balance  of  the  leaders  and  demi-leaders ;  but  when  they  did  not 
come,  and  when  because  of  it  strange  things  were  whispered 
and  suggested,  this  courageous  statesman,  who  was  also  a  sol- 
dier and  a  patriot,  said  some  few  words  in  his  low,  sententious, 
emphatic  way  which  scared  the  young  conspirators  about 
Shreveport  into  panic  and  the  older  ones  into  common  sense. 
Thereafter  there  was  no  more  talk  of  fusillades.  Missouri's 
great  war  Governor  had  held  out  his  right  hand  over  the  heads 
of  his  people,  and  though  there  might  not  have  been  seen  any- 
where about  it  the  iron,  those  who  had  reason  to  know  best  of 
all,  kn^w  that  it  was  mailed. 

And  it  was  to  carry  a  message  from  Quantrell  to  Reynolds  that 
George  Maddox  made  his  memorable  trip  in  1863.  Reynolds, 
in  order  to  understand  thoroughly  the  military  condition  of 
Missouri,  and  to  know  for  special  reasons  how  many  militia 
were  on  duty  in  the  State,  how  many  Federal  troops,  what 
posts  were  fortified,  and  what  the  strength  of  the  posts  was, 
had  commissioned  Quantrell  to  ascertain  these  facts  and  forward 
them  to  him  without  delay.  Quantrell  did  what  he  was  ordered 
to  do,  and  did  it  thoroughly.  Ten  reports  were  made  of  this 
information,  and  George  Maddox,  at  the  head  of  nine  men,  was 
entrusted  with  the  hazardous  duty  of  conveying  said  informa- 
tion to  Arkansas.  He  was  to  stop  for  nothing.  He  was  to  ride 


THE   WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  379 

by  night  as  well  as  by  day.  If  there  were  no  fords  he  was  to 
swim ;  if  he  could  not  swim  he  was  to  drown.  If  he  had  to 
fight,  very  well — fight ;  if  he  had  to  run,  still  very  well — run ; 
if  he  had  men  wounded,  leave  them ;  if  he  had  men  killed, 
leave  them.  If  he  had  men  crippled  leave  them.  Some 
one  of  the  ten  was  to  get  through  as  last  as  human 
flesh  and  horse  flesh  would  hold  together  and  go  on. 
These  were  Quantrell's  iron  orders,  and  he  chose  an  iron  man 
to  carry  them  out.  George  Maddox  was  all  tenacity  and 
endurance.  Tried  in  the  fire  of  fifty  desperate  combats,  he  was 
a  fatalist  to  the  extent  of  believing  in  fate's  good  care  of  him. 
He  did  not  speculate ;  he  did  not  build  air  castles  at  night  for 
the  mists  of  the  morning  to  dissipate;  if  he  was  an  hungered 
and  could  not  get  to  eat,  he  drew  his  revolver  belt  a 
hole  or  two  tighter  and  forgot  that  he  had  an  appetite.  As  he 
rode  he  sang,  or  was  glad,  or  gay.  Air  and  exercise  put  iron 
into  his  blood  as  wine  puts  fancies  into  the  brain.  When  he 
started  southward  the  night  was  a  summer  night,  and  a  waning 
moon  was  far  and  faint  in  the  West — a  blindfold  moon  with  a 
black  cloud  across  its  face  like  any  veil. 

The  country  in  every  direction  was  swarming  with  Federals. 
They  were  by  streams  and  crossings,  at  ferries  and  bridges,  in 
the  towns  and  on  the  main  roads,  on  scouting  expeditions 
and  harrying  marches.  They  were  killing  everywhere,  burning 
everywhere,  destroying  everywhere,  robbing  everywhere,  watch- 
ing everywhere. 

Maddox  rode  fast  the  first  night  and  fought  at  daylight  the 
next  morning,  losing  a  man  killed,  Wilham  Strother.  The 
dispatch  that  Strother  bore  was  taken  from  his  person  under 
fire,  together  with  his  pistols,  and  the  nine  rode  on,  hard 
bestead  and  forced  nine  times  during  the  day  to  turn  about  and 
give  and  take  whether  or  no.  Just  at  nightfall  John  Coger  was 
wounded.  The  ball  knocked  him  at  first  from  his  horse,  but  he 
leaped  defiantly  to  his  feet  and  killed  the  soldier  who  shot  him, 
mounting  again  and  riding  on  apparently  unhurt  with  his  com- 
rades until  the  darkness  deepened.  Then  his  leg  began  first  to 
burn  and  throb,  next  to  grow  fiery  red,  and  then  to  stiffen. 
Evidently  this  battered  old  hero  would  have  to  fall  out  by  the 
wayside  and  return  by  easy  stages  and  at  his  leisure.  Where 
some  heavy  timber  grew  in  the  lower  portion  of  Johnson 


380  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

county,  Maddox  left  Coger,  taking  first  his  dispatch,  and  giving 
him  in  place  of  it  Strotner's  trusty  revolvers. 

"Watch  well  behind  and  before,  Coger,  old  boy,*'  said 
Maddox  cheerily  in  parting,  and  the  eight  rode  steadily  away  to 
the  South. 

In  Henry  county  there  was  another  fight,  a  short,  savage, 
venomous  one,  wherein  the  eight  Guerrillas  charged  twenty 
ambushed  Federals  and  routed  them,  losing  Sam  Jessup  killed 
and  Newt  Majors  seriously  wounded.  Jessup  was  let  remain 
where  he  fell,  and  Majors,  carried  carefully  along  to  the  edge 
of  St.  Clair,  was  deposited  at  the  house  of  a  well  known 
Southern  man  deep  in  some  timber.  Two  days  afterwards 
Majors  was  surrounded  and  killed,  killing,  however,  even  as  he 
died.  But  neither  on  the  body  of  Jessup,  nor  yet  on  that  of 
Majors,  was  anything  found  that  told  of  name,  or  band,  or 
flag,  or  mission.  These  dead  men  surely  told  no  tales ! 

In  St.  Clair,  and  close  to  where  it  abuts  upon  Cedar,  the 
besetments  of  a  night  ambuscade  added  its  terrors  to  the 
fatigues  of  the  long  day's  march,  and  here  before  the  hidden 
hornets  had  done  stinging,  Sim  Whitsett  was  shot  past  riding 
further  than  to  find  a  place  of  safety.  Whitsett  was  all  nerve, 
and  dash,  and  rugged  endurance,  but  he  was  human.  He 
closed  his  lips  tightly,  and  gripped  his  horse  with  his  knees, 
and  managed  to  make  five  miles  painfully  before  he  found  a 
sure  asylum ;  but  the  five  could  not  tarry.  Maddox  took  his 
comrade's  precious  dispatch,  blessed  him,  and  bade  him 
goodbye — a  parting  that  might  for  want  of  a  better  simile  be 
likened  to  the  parting  of  sledge-hammer  and  anvil. 

Cedar  county,  that  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  for  isolated 
or  belated  Confederate  travelers,  was  circumvented  with  a 
balance  left  largely  to  the  Guerrilla  side.  Secure  in  a  security 
that  had  scarcely  known  a  stir  or  a  ripple  of  excitement  for  a 
year,  Maddox  caught  nine  unwary  pillagers  and  left  them  past 
seeing  or  feeling.  The  last  one  to  be  killed  was  a  preacher  who 
blasphemed  beyond  all  endurance  and  died  cursing  God  and  the 
devil.  As  a  vengeance,  or  maybe  as  a  punishment  for  not  mow- 
ing a  wider  swathe  through  Cedar  county,  Maddox  lost  one  man, 
Patrick  Nagle,  killed  in  Dade,  and  another,  Silas  Woodruff, 
killed  in  Lawrence.  There  were  but  three  left — three  guant, 
grim,  silent,  desperate  men  —  worn  from  hard  riding,  much 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  381 

starving,  scant  sleep,  and  continual  fighting.  In  Barry  county, 
Henry  Hockensmith — undaunted  and  unflagging,  as  he  pressed 
forward  with  his  stern,  set  face  far  towards  Arkansas,  was  shot 
from  a  roadside  hollow  and  severely  wounded.  The  ball  did  not 
even  sway  him  in  the  saddle.  Solid  as  a  young  oak,  built  like 
a  grizzly  bear  for  depth  of  chest  and  weight  of  muscle,  cool  as 
a  grenadier,  schooled  by  Quantrell,  drilled  by  George  Todd, 
and  graduated  from  a  school  that  knew  no  peril  that  would  not 
flee  if  faced  and  no  bloody  ground  that  would  not  give  up  its 
ogres  if  penetrated,  he  rode  on  for  twenty-two  miles  further 
with  a  ball  in  his  shoulder,  and  into  a  safe  place  in  Arkansas. 
Five  days  afterwards  George  Maddox  and  one  other  comrade, 
the  indomitable  Press  Webb,  dismounted  at  Reynolds'  tent 
door — travel-stained,  hollow  eyed,  bronzed  brown  as  Indians, 
but  triumphant.  On  the  exhaustive  information  thus  sent  and 
received,  and  on  similar  information  similiarly  sent  in  1864  was 
the  Price  Expedition  conceived  and  inaugurated. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE   DEATH  OF  QUANTRELL. 

OiUFFERING  more  or  less  from  old  wounds,  and  to  a  consid- 
^_}  erable  degree  from  a  tenacious  sickness,  QuantrelPs  com- 
parative quietude  after  the  Lawrence  expedition  was  simply  the 
quietude  of  a  man  who  desired  above  all  other  things  to  get 
well.  At  times  he  could  scarcely  ride.  Once  or  twice  he 
dragged  himself  with  difficulty  from  one  hiding-place  to  another. 
But  for  the  devotion  of  a  small  body-guard — not  at  any  time 
larger  than  twenty  picked  men — he  must  have  fallen  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  Those  who  composed  this,  however, 
watched  over  him  day  and  night,  scouted  for  him  while  he  rest- 
ed, stood  guard  for  him  while  he  slept,  secured  for  him  under 
every  adverse  circumstance  the  most  skillful  of  medical  attend- 
ance ;  and  finally  and  as  a  reward  saw  the  slow  fever  that  was 
not  all  a  fever  broken  up  and  banished — saw  the  color  come  back 
to  the  cheeks  of  their  Chieftain,  the  light  to  his  eyes,  the 
elasticity  to  his  figure — and  finally  and  forever  saw  him  mount 
his  horse  for  the  last  time  in  Missouri  and  ride  away  from  the 
State  forever. 

Quantrell  believed,  after  Price  had  retreated  southward  from 
Westport,  baffled  and  broken  up,  that  the  end  of  the  regular 
war  was  near  at  hand.  His  idea  at  this  time  was  to  change  his 
theatre  of  operations,  and  transfer  from  the  West  to  the  East 
that  terrible  kind  of  resistance  to  subjugation  which  had 
already  made  the  border  a  desert  inhabited  only  by  graves.  He 
was  clearly  of  the  opinion  that  to  the  warfare  of  the  regular 
Confederate  government  there  would  succeed  the  warfare  of  the 
Guerrilla.  He  was  anxious  to  reach  Maryland,  and  to  operate 
from  this  State  into  Pennsylvania.  As  a  nucleus  for  a  larger 
organization  after  he  should  have  reached  his  eastern  point  of 
hostilities,  he  deemed  it  absolutely  necessary  to  secure  the  ser- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  383 

vices  of  as  many  of  his  old  soldiers  as  possible,  and  with  this  view 
sent  John  Barker  and  James  Little,  on  the  20th  of  November, 
1864,  to  notify  the  command  to  meet  him  at  Mrs.  Wigginton's  on 
the  4th  of  the  following  month.  Mrs.  "Wigginton  lived  five  miles 
west  of  Waverly,  Lafayette  county,  and  was  a  refugee  from 
Jackson,  whose  husband  had  been  killed,  whose  property  had 
been  destroyed,  and  whose  sons  had  been  fighting  the  long, 
merciless  fight  of  the  four  years'  war. 

The  word  for  the  rendezvous  was  sped  swiftly.  Frank  James 
gathered  up  Donnie  and  Bud  Pence,  Oil  Shepherd  and  George 
Robinson,  and  made  haste  to  cross  into  Jackson.  En  route  to 
the  river,  and  while  at  the  house  of  Captain  Smith,  Frank  James 
found  a  Federal  in  Smith's  stable.  He  ordered  him  to  come 
out  speedily,  and  the  Federal  fired  at  James,  the  ball  cutting 
through  his  overcoat,  uniform  coat,  vest,  and  shirt.  It  burnt 
the  skin  sharply,  but  it  did  not  draw  blood,  and  James — putting 
his  pistol  through  a  crack  in  the  stable — killed  the  soldier  before 
he  succeeded  in  getting  in  a  second  bullet.  Occupying  the 
house  also  was  a  detachment  of  militia  numbering  thirty-two, 
which  opened  up  a  lively  fusillade  and  drove  the  Guerrillas  away 
from  their  range  after  a  sharp  volley  or  two.  Captain  Smith 
was  badly  wounded  and  his  son  killed,  together  with  three 
others  of  the  command. 

On  the  4th  of  December  forty-seven  men  were  at  the  Wig^- 
ginton  rendezvous,  and  Quantrell  ranged  them  in  line  for  a  final 
understanding.  The  most  of  the  faces  that  were  turned  fair 
towards  him  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  line,  were  familiar  faces, 
and  scarred  and  bronzed.  He  saw  Peyton  Long  there,  and  Will 
and  Henry  Noland,  John  Barker,  Chat  Renick,  Ben  Morrow, 
Rufas  and  Babe  Hudspeth,  John  Coger,  Oil  Shepherd,  Frank 
James,  William  Hulse,  and  many  others  of  the  tried  and  true. 
QuantrelFs  talk  to  them  was  brief.  "I  have  called  you 
together,"  he  said,  uthat  I  might  say  to  you  what  I  have  not 
yet  said  to  myself,  and  ask  of  you  to  my  proposition  the  simple 
answer  yes  or  no.  This  side  the  Mississippi  river  the  war  ended 
with  the  abandonment  of  Missouri  by  General  Price.  All  the 
West  is  overrun  with  Federal  soldiers.  No  food,  no  forage,  no 
horses,  no  houses,  no  hiding-places,  no  traffic  any  more  with  the 
posts — if  we  operate  longer  along  the  Kansas  border  we  operate 
at  a  disadvantage  altogether  disproportionate  to  our  means. 


384  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

My  intention  is  to  cross  east  of  the  Mississippi  ri\er,  pass 
through  Illinois  and  Ohio  as  a  Federal  scout,  gain  Maryland, 
and  carry  into  the  heart  of  Pennsylvania  the  torch  and  the  black 
flag.  If  I  live  I  mean  that  they  shall  feel  in  the  East  what  we 
have  felt  in  the  West.  How  many  will  follow  me  to  the  end  r" 

As  one  man  those  stern,  scarred  Guerrillas  shouted,  "All!" 

"Many  may  never  come  back,"  continued  Quantrell, •"  and 
it  may  be  my  lot  to  fall  among  the  first ;  but  those  who  do  not 
mean  to  die  if  the  need  come  ever  in  the  future  for  them  to  die, 
can  ride  now  two  paces  to  the  front.  They  shall  lose  nothing 
in  name,  or  fame,  or  comradeship." 

Not  a  spur  stroke  fell  up  a  horse's  flank,  not  a  left  hand  lifted 
a  bridle.  From  right  to  left  the  rear  rank  and  front  rank  were 
adamant.  At  noon  they  marched — the  most  of  them  into  the 
unknown. 

The  ice  in  the  Missouri  river  ran  heavily,  too  heavily  indeed 
for  any  patch-work  boats  launched  hurriedly,  or  any  frail  craft 
stumbled  upon  unawares  to  live  in  it.  Quantrell,  waiting  four 
days  at  Saline  City  for  either  a  sudden  breaking  up  of  the 
extreme  cold  or  a  solid  gorge  fit  for  crossing,  saw  neither  come 
nor  like  to  come.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  he  changed 
his  course  from  east  to  south,  abandoned  the  intention  of  march- 
ing through  Illinois  and  Ohio,  and  chose  Kentucky  as  the  next 
best  route  for  a  march  into  Maryland. 

Getting  well  over  the  Larnine  river,  he  left  Union  Church  upon 
his  left,  crossed  the  Missouri  Pacific  Railroad  eight)  miles 
west  of  Tipton,  and  marched  southeast  boldly  between  Cole 
Camp  and  Florence.  Each  man,  clothed  perfectly  in  Federal 
uniform,  met  Federals  hourly,  talked  with  them,  moved  with 
them,  mixed  with  them,  ate  and  slept  with  them,  and  every  now 
and  then  shot  numbers  of  them  to  death.  Of  course  this  kill- 
ing was  done  quietly,  and  in  lonesome  and  sudden  places.  If 
any  hue  and  cry  were  raised  over  bodies  found  mysteriously 
and  shot  most  generally  in  the  head,  the  echoes  thereof  did  not 
reach  up  to  Quantrell  hurrying  on  to  find  a  crossing  somewhere 
and  put  between  him  speedily  and  the  gathering  storm  behind 
him  the  broad  Mississippi. 

At  a  camp  twelve  miles  from  Tuscumbia,  Miller  county, 
Quantrell  had  information  brought  to  him  that  this  place  was 
held  by  a  garrison  of  fifty  militia.  He  asked  his  men  how  many 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  385 

among  them  thought  they  could  ride  boldly  into  Tusoumbia,  as 
Federals,  talk  as  Federals,  act  as  Federals,  and  finally  ride  out 
again  just  as  Federal  soldiers  would  ride  out  from  among  their  own 
comrades.  Every  Guerrilla  imagined  himself  equal  to  the  task,  and 
when  within  a  mile  of  the  town  Quantrell  ordered  Frank  James 
and  Peyton  Long  to  ride  some  fifty  paces  in  advance,  continue 
directly  to  the  headquarters  of  the  commandant,  and  notice 
whatever  seemed  to  be  suspicious,  and  report  it  instantly.  He 
did  not  know  what  stories  might  have  preceded  him,  and  most 
certainly  did  he  not  intend  to  march  blindfold  into  a  trap,  and 
be  dealt  with  afterwards  leisurely  and  with  effectiveness. 

The  two  scouts,  however,  saw  nothing  that  indicated  even  a 
faint  supposition  that  the  assumed  Federals  were  aught  but 
Federals  in  reality.  The  greeting  was  hearty,  the  welcome 
warm,  and  the  commingling  old-fashioned  and  sincere.  As 
Quantrell  rode  up  he  asked  for  the  ranking  officer  of  the 
post,  and  a  Major  came  to  the  front  door  of  the  house  where 
his  headquarters  had  been  established.  The  two  saluted,  and 
the  Federal  asked  of  the  Guerrilla  the  name  of  the  corn- 
command  to  which  he  belonged.  Quantrell  promptly  responded : 
"Company  E.,  Second  Colorado  Cavalry."  "And  your  name, 
Captain?"  "Charles  W.  Moses."  "Can  I  serve  you  in  any 
manner?"  the  Major  continued.  "Yes,"  replied  Quantrell. 
"Some  food  and  forage  will  be  very  acceptable  indeed.  We 
have  ridden  far  and  fast,  and  have  still  great  need  to  make 
haste.  I  have  a  special  mission  to  pertorm  under  special 
orders." 

The  Guerrillas  dismounted  coolly  after  this  little  dialogue, 
and  went  to  and  fro  about  the  town.  At  first  the  novelty  of  the 
adventure  and  the  peril  of  the  situation,  kept  every  man  to  his 
duty.  By  and  by,  however,  familiarity  began  to  break  down 
the  barriers  circumspection  had  erected.  The  hands  of  some  of 
the  more  desperate  among  the  band  could  scarcely  be  kept  from 
the  throats  of  the  miiitia.  Here  and  there  little  quarrels  began 
to  make  headway,  and  ugly  though  furtive  looks  were  beginning 
to  be  cast  at  the  freest  and  the  mosi,  outspoken  ones  of  the  gar- 
rison. Quantrell  formed  his  resolution  instantly.  Calling 
about  him  John  Ross,  John  Coger,  Frank  James,  Peyton, 
Long,  Rufus  Hudspeth,  Babe  Hudspeth,  Ben  Morrow, 
and  five  or  six  others  he  bade  them  inform  the  balance  quietly 
25 


386  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

that  it  was  his  intention  to  disarm  the  militia.  As  a  torch  that 
passes  along  a  line  of  ready  gaslights,  this  word  went  from 
Guerrilla  to  Guerrilla  almost  instantly.  Then  Quantrell  turned 
sternly  to  the  Major  commanding,  and  ordered  him  to  surrender 
every  musket  and  pistol  belonging  to  the  garrison.  Surprised 
but  wholly  powerless — for  each  Guerrilla  with  a  drawn  revolver 
in  his  hand  stood  covering  a  militiaman — the  Major  yielded 
with  the  best  grace  imaginable  and  extended  his  own  sword. 
Quantrell  gave  it  back  to  him.  "I  do  not  want  your  sword,"  he 
said,  as  he  pushed  it  towards  him,  "but  my  duties  are 
imperative.  You  have  permitted  your  soldiers  to  steal  with 
impunity,  to  rob  the  citizens  right  and  left,  to  occasionally  kill 
some  so-called  Southern  resident  who  may  have  become  obnox- 
ious to  this  or  that  personal  enemy ;  and  because  of  all  these 
things,  and  in  pursuance  of  direct  and  positive  orders,  I  have 
disarmed  you."  Not  a  word  in  remonstrance  did  any  man  or 
officer  put  up.  Probably  a  guilty  conscience  made  of  each  a 
coward  ;  probably  none  suspected  Quantrell  of  being  other  than 
what  he  represented  himself  as  being.  One  of  the  garrison — a 
private — broke  away  from,  his  captors  and  refused  to  halt  when 
he  was  cried  out  to.  Twenty  pistols  clicked  and  were  covering 
him  in  a  moment.  Quantrell  knocked  them  up.  "No  shooting 
here!"  he  shouted  fiercely;  "not  a  single  drop  of  blood.  Take 
him,  some  of  you,  but  take  him  alive."  Swift  as  runners,  and 
agile  as  antelope,  John  Ross  and  Dick  Burnes  separated  them- 
selves from  the  press  and  dashed  after  the  ungovernable  militia- 
man. Even  when  overtaken  and  grappled  with,  he  fought 
furiously,  yielding  only  after  he  had  been  thrown  npon  the 
ground,  sat  upon  and  choked  into  submission.  For  the  stub- 
bornness of  his  resistance  he  gave  stealing  as  a  reason.  He  had 
heard  the  conversation  between  Quantrell  and  the  commanding 
officer,  and  he  supposed  that  for  his  numerous  larcenies,  both 
pettit  and  grand,  the  reckoning  at  last  was  near  at  hand.  Quan- 
trell broke  the  guns  to  pieces,  appropriated  the  pistols,  bade  the 
Major  commanding  report  at  Holla  under  arrest,  and  marched 
away  South  followed  by  the  subdued  curses  of  the  disarmed  and 
discomfited  militia,  but  not  their  suspicions.  To  all  intents  and 
purposes  he  was  still  Capt.  Charles  W.  Moses,  Company  E.,  2d 
Colorado  Cavalry. 
The  role  of  the  Federal  special  scout  was  renewed  again. 


THE   Y'AEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDEE  387 

Union  citizens  were  to  remain  unmolested.  Union  soldiers  were 
not  to  be  killed  only  in  instances  where  concealment  was 
absolute.  Nothing  of  interference  was  permitted  with  indi- 
vidual property.  Decorous,  in  short,  and  velvet-pawed,  these 
lions  of  the  border  were  neither  to  roar  nor  leave  anywhere  the 
marks  of  claws  or  jaws.  The  old  lust  of  conquest,  however, 
so  far  overcame  John  Coger  one  day  that  he  laid  violent  hands 
upon  a  militiaman,  who  rode  a  fine  horse  and  carried  buckled 
about  him  four  elegant  navies.  Quantrell  remonstrated  sternly 
with  his  soldier — and  a  better  one  no  army  ever  had — but  Coger 
disarmed  his  anger  by  pleadingly  proclaiming :  "Captain,  the 
temptation  was  so  strong  that  I  weakened.  Tliar  ar  the  pistols, 
just  bran  new.  and  bully.  If  a  white  man  had  the  handling  of 
them,  the  confidence  he  mought  put  into  them  would  neither  be 
denied  nor  disappointed.  As  they  ar,  and  left  as  I  found  them, 
and  they'll  never  kill  a  more  dangerous  thing,  "by  g — d,  than  a 
gra}rbeard  or  a  woman.  I  sot  store  by  them  for  the  good  I 
thought  mought  be  got  out  of  them ;  but  if  it's  agin  orders, 
give  them  back  to  the  skulker  who  couldn't  hit  a  barn  door  the 
length  of  a  hoop-pole."  Quantrell  did  not  laugh,  neither  did 
he  restore  to  the  trooper  his  revolvers.  In  fact,  and  at  night- 
fall, in  addition  to  the  pistols,  the  militiaman  lost  both  his  horse 
and  his  life.  Shot  dead  and  cast  into  a  stream  of  running 
water,  when  found  afterwards  he  could  not  be  recognized 
because  of  his  disfigurement. 

Riding  boldly  past  Rolla,  openly  and  unquestioned,  the 
four  thousand  Federal  cavalry  there  never  even  so  much  as 
looked  towards  their  horses  as  the  Guerrillas  hurried  by.  At 
Salem,  in  Dent  county,  there  was  a  regiment  whose  picquets 
gave  and  returned  the  compliments  of  the  day,  and  at  King's 
Mountain  Qauntrell  dined  with  a  Federal  Colonel  named 
McWilliams,  commanding  four  hundred  men.  Near  Thomas- 
ville  the  Guerrillas  crossed  into  Arkansas,  hurried  forward  to 
Pocahontas,  fraternized  with  a  garrison  there  of  eighty  Illinois 
infantry,  an<t  remained  in  the  town  several  days  to  refit  and 
recruit.  Here  Joseph  and  John  Hall  were  left,  the  former  sick 
of  virulent  small-pox,  and  the  later  being  detailed  to  wait 
upon  him.  Joseph  recovered  and  was  killed;  John  avenged 
his  brother  thoroughly  and  survived  the  war. 

Mr.  Charles  Morrison  lived  upon  the  south  bank  of  the  Mis- 


388  NOTED  aUEEKlLLAS,   QE 

sissippi  river,  eighteen  miles  above  Memphis.  In  the  secret 
service  of  the  Confederate  government,  and  operating  with  two 
score  or  more  of  scouts  with  great  vigor  and  perspicacity,  was 
Major  Morrison  Boswell.  At  times  his  headquarters  were  at 
Morrison's  house,  while  all  the  country  round  about  was 
embraced  in  the  scope  of  his  operations  and  gave  up  its  military 
secrets  to  his  untiring  quest.  Past  forty ;  pulling  the  beam  at 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  if  pulling  it  a  pound;  always 
laughing ;  at  peace  with  mankind  and  ardent  to  please  as  a 
preacher  who  preaches  upon  a  circuit;  the  best  judge  of  horse- 
flesh in  the  Trans-Mississippi  Department ;  something  of  a  phy- 
sician, and  much  of  a  botanist ;  patient  with  children ;  a  little 
of  a  priest  and  a  good  deal  of  a  confessor ;  powerful  in  prayer 
and  unctuous  among  class  leaders ;  sleepless,  omnipresent, 
brave,  unexceptionable  as  a  scout  and  inexorable  at  the  court- 
martial,  Major  Boswell,  a  Nemesis  as  it  were  in  a  cane-braket 
kept  watch  and  ward  upon  the  river,  strangling  the  cotton 
thieves  who  to  corrupt  the  soldiery  would  sometimes  venture  far 
inland,  and  putting  to  a  swift  and  voiceless  death  every 
unmasked  and  accredited  spy  who  presumed  upon  the  license  of 
the  border  to  penetrate  the  lines.  There  was  no  parade. 
Ostentation  did  not  belong  to  this  rubicund  Colossus,  patting  a 
child's  curly  head  while  signing  a  death  warrant.  Among  the 
weeds  there  may  have  been  a  rustle,  and  afterwards  a  volley ; 
but  never  a  noise  as  of  the  beseeching  of  men  or  the  crying  out 
of  executioners. 

Of  course  Major  Boswell — who  had  almost  everything  else — 
had  also  a  boat.  Boats  at  that  time,  however,  were  as  precious 
as  a  gold  mine.  What  between  the  ironclads  proper  and  the 
marine  fleet,  the  regular  dry  land  soldiers  and  those  other  fellows 
who  were  amphibious,  the  Confederates  had  scarcely  left  to 
them  a  flat-boat,  skiff,  canoe,  dug-out,  raft,  four  planks — one 
upon  another — or  aught  of  anything  in  fact  that  would  float,  or 
swim,  or  hold  safe  from  wind  and  water  a  single  courier  carrying 
a  single  carbine. 

Major  Bos  well's  boat  was  stowed  away  in  a  cane-brake. 
When  it  was  needed  it  was  hauled  up  out  of  the  mud  and  carried 
on  men's  shoulders  a  mile  to  the  Mississippi.  Quantrell  needed 
it  badly,  and  Major  Boswell  placed  it  quickly  at  his  service. 
Frank  James  steered,  and  the  horses  were  forced  to  swim. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  389 

Above,  the  black  smoke  of  an  anchored  ironclad  floated  up  from 
the  heavy  timber  that  cut  the  sky-line  and  trailed  sable  garments 
along  the  tallest  cottonwoods  as  a  presage  of  discovery.  Below, 
the  noise  of  escaping  steam  sounded  as  though  a  fleet  were 
crouching  there.  On  the  thither  bank  cavalry  patrols  had  passed 
in  numbers  but  an  hour  before.  Danger  was  everywhere ;  the 
water  was  in  arms  against  the  Guerrillas  equally  with  the  land. 
"  Steer  boldly!"  Quantrell  gave  no  other  order.  The  men 
buckled  tight  about  them  their  revolver-belts  and  manned  the 
boat.  In  an  hour  all  were  over,  neither  accident  nor  discovery 
complicating  in  any  degree  an  already  desperate  situation. 

When  everything  was  over  and  well  over,  and  when  the  line 
of  march  was  just  about  to  be  resumed  into  the  interior,  Oil 
Shepherd,  Robert,  Rufus,  and  Babe  Hudspeth,  and  John  Coger 
took  leave  of  Quantrell.  They  had  no  need  to  go  further. 
They  had  seen  him  safely  reach  to  within  the  confines  of  a 
territory  where  at  least  there  might  be  found  comparative 
succor  and  shelter.  While  there  was  danger,  or  anything 
even  that  suggested  danger,  they  had  pressed  closer  and 
closer  about  their  Chieftain.  Now  there  was  a  material  lifting 
of  the  load  of  anxiety  and  doubt,  and  they  stood  fully  acquit 
of  any  further  service  in  the  direction  of  Kentucky.  Some 
wept  as  these  men  said  good-bye,  and  Quantrell  was  sensibly 
affected.  They  never  met  again ! 

On  the  first  day  of  January,  1865,  the  Guerrillas  marched 
northeast  from  the  Mississippi  river,  and  reached  Brownsville, 
Tennessee,  after  being  ambushed  and  fired  upon  several  times 
by  scouts  from  Forrest's  command,  who  mistook  them  for  Fed- 
eral cavalry.  From  Brownsville  to  Paris,  in  Henry  county,  the 
journey  because  of  its  safety  and  freedom  from  restraint  was 
one  of  real  relaxation,  but  at  Paris  the  Confederate  commander 
of  the  post  required  that  Quantrell  should  report  to  him  for 
duty  and  sought  to  detain  him.  Quantrell  remonstrated  with 
the  officer  without  at  first  disclosing  his  intentions  or  revealing 
his  identity.  Later  on  he  told  him  the  whole  story  and  urged 
the  necessity  of  an  immediate  advance.  The  Confederate 
laughed  at  his  assumption  of  the  name  of  Quantrell,  and 
refused  him  positively  the  permission  to  go  forward.  Quantrell 
cut  the  knot  that  he  could  not  untie.  Causing  his  men  to 
mount  and  form  instantly,  he  bade  the  Lieutenant  commanding 


390  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

the  post  to  do  the  best  or  the  worst  that  he  could,  and  rode 
boldly  out  from  the  town,  crossing  the  Tennessee  river  at  Birm- 
ingham uupursued  and  unmolested.  At  Canton,  on  the  Cumber- 
land, Quantrell — always  more  or  less  of  a  fatalist — had  what  he 
called  a  "premonition  of  bad  luck."  "Old  Charlie"  was  the 
name  of  his  favorite  war-horse.  He  was  noted  along  the  border 
not  so  much  for  great  speed  as  for  great  bottom.  He  never 
tired.  Under  fire  no  oak  tree  was  steadier.  Where  the  white 
spots  were  on  his  g'ossy  hide,  the  bullets  had  scarred  him. 
Trained  to  either  extreme  of  fortune,  he  knew  how  to  neigh  his 
exultation  in  victory  or  hold  his  breath  hard  when  the  crisis  of 
an  ambuscade  was  about  to  culminate.  Safely  through  many  a 
forlorn  and  stubborn  fight  had  he  borne  his  master,  and  never 
once  in  all  his  inexorable  years  of  service  had  his  proud  spirit 
needed  a  whip  lash  or  his  laboring  flanks  a  spur  stroke.  Quan- 
trell loved  his  horse. 

Well  over  the  Cumberland  river,  and  seeking  to  strip  the 
command  to  the  waist  as  it  were  for  fighting,  Quantrell  saw  at  a 
glance  the  necessity  of  having  Old  Charlie  shod.  In  attempt- 
ing to  do  it  the  horse  struggled — an  unusual  thing  for  him — and 
Robert  Hall,  the  blacksmith,  accidentally  cut  the  main  tendon  of 
his  right  hind  leg  with  the  buttress,  ruining  him  forever.  "It 
is  fate,"  said  Quantrell,  when  the  calamity  wa-  reported  to  him, 
"and  now  for  me  the  long  lane  of  a  successful  career  is  about 
to  have  a  turn.  So  be  it." 

John  Ross  presented  Quantrell  instantly  with  his  own  horse,  a 
splendid  Missouri  animal,  inured  to  service  and  hardened  by 
much  exercise  and  marching,  and  Quantrell  took  the  road  that 
led  to  his  destiny.  He  had  now  assumed  the  name  of  Captain 
James  Clark.  Capt.  Clark  was  once  an  officer  of  the  2d  Colorado 
Cavalry  and  had  been  killed  by  Quantrell  in  1863.  Dispossess- 
ing the  dead  man  of  his  uniform  and  preserving  it  carefully 
against  a  time  like  this  when  the  need  for  it  would  be  great,  he 
put  it  on  the  day  the  march  was  resumed  from  Canton.  In 
height,  size,  features,  and  general  appearance  Clark  had  been 
singularly  like  Quantrell;  but  as  none  in  Kentucky  probably 
knew  Clark,  the  only  advantage  his  personation  possessed  was 
the  advantage  of  a  more  than  usually  agreeable  fit  of  coat  and 
pantaloons. 

Through  Cadiz,  in  Trigg  county,  and  on  towards  Hopkins- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  391 

ville,  the  Guerrillas  rode  boldly,  Federals  soldiers  in  everything 
— in  walk,  talk,  dress,  circumspection,  bearing,  declaration,  and 
decorous  behavior.  General  I^on,  a  Confederate  officer  of 
great  dash,  enterprise  and  courage  had  but  recently  been  well 
up  into  Kentucky  on  a  raid,  and  from  the  pursuit  of  him  and 
his  gallant  followers  many  Federal  cavalry  detachments  were 
returning.  Why  not  Quantrell  among  the  rest? 

Near  unto  Hopkinsville  the  Guerrillas  struck  the  trail  of  thirty 
Federals  and  followed  it  with  alacrity.  They  desired  much 
some  fresh  horses,  and  to  obtain  them  they  would  even  risk  the 
breaking  up  of  a  disguise  which  was  and  had  been  working  in 
a  most  satisfactory  manner.  The  Federal  cavalry  out  rode  their 
pursuers,  and  it  was  supper  time  before  a  portion  of  them  were 
overtaken  at  a  house  and  brought  to  terms.  Quantrell 
attempted  to  keep  up  the  Federal  imposition,  but  when  the  coun- 
tersign was  demanded  he  could  not  give  it.  As  a  result  those  in 
the  house  fired  a  volley  which  broke  the  right  thigh  of  Lieutenant 
James  Little,  and  caused  the  balance  of  the  Guerrillas  to  dis- 
mount speedily  and  surround  the  dwelling.  Those  within  side 
held  on  well,  and  Quantrell,  to  save  his  own  men  as  much  as 
possible,  called  for  volunteers  to  fire  the  building.  Chat 
Renick,  Peyton  Long,  William  Hulse,  Frank  James,  and  Andy 
McGuire  sprang  forward  to  do  his  bidding,  covered  by  the 
carbines  of  their  watchful  comrades.  The  flames,  however, 
had  not  made  much  headway  when  there  was  a  surrender,  and 
three  cavalrymen  crept  out  through  a  door,  carrying  each  a 
Spencer  rifle.  "Where  are  the  balance?"  Quantrell  sternly 
demanded.  "  There  are  but  three  of  us,"  was  the  reply,  kkln 
the  stable  I  have  counted  twelve  horses;  that  ^ould  be  four 
horses  for  each  of  you;  not  thus  do  cavalrymen  ride  in  the 
country  I  came  from."  "  There  were  nine  others  with  us  when 
you  came  up — men  whom  we  thought  were  soldiers,  but  when 
they  saw  you  dismount  they  disappeared  afoot.  By  this  time, 
perhaps,  they  are  safe  in  Hopkinsville." 

It  was  simple  truth,  the  story  they  told,  and  Quantrell 
admitted  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  his.  command  had  been 
brought  to  bay  and  held  some  little  time  in  that  defensive  atti- 
tude by  three  resolute  Kentuckians.  He  went  no  further  that 
night,  nor  did  he  deem  it  best  to  advance  upon  Hopkinsville  and 
attempt  to  get  horses  there  from  the  balance  of  a  detachment 


392  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

whose  intrepidity  he   eould  well   understand    and    appreciate. 

At  daylight  the  next  morning  he  bade  James  Little  goodbye 
forever.  Mortally  wounded,  the  young  Guerrilla  lingered  for  a 
few  days  at  the  house  where  he  had  been  so  grievously  hurt,  and 
died  as  he  had  lived,  a  soldier  who  never  knew  fear.  Little  was 
one  among  the  original  number  who  composed  Quan  troll's  first 
insignificant  baud.  He  had  participated  equally  with  his  chief 
in  the  gloom  or  the  glory  of  every  combat.  Things  changed 
all  about  him,  and  men,  and  measures.  He  kept  right  onward 
towards  where  he  believed  the  goal  to  be.  He  did  not  expect 
to  survive  the  war,  and  he  was  not  disappointed.  None  were 
braver  than  he,  none  truer  to  word  or  comrade,  none  more 
pervious  to  human  mercy  or  affection,  none  that  fought  a 
nobler  fight  or  died  a  calmer,  happier  death.  He  loved  the 
South  as  a  lover  does  a  mistress,  and  he  gave  all  that  he 
possessed  on  earth  for  her — his  life. 

Quantrell  passed  directly  through  Greenville,  in  Muhlenburg 
county,  garrisoned  heavily  by  Federals.  As  Capt.  Clark,  he 
succeeded  admirably  in  allaying  all  suspicion,  if,  indeed,  any 
suspicion  at  that  time  had  been  aroused.  At  Hartford,  in  Ohio 
county,  Quantrell  so  far  varied  the  monotony  of  disguise  as  to 
eschew  the  Colorado  part  of  it  for  the  Tennessee  counterfeit. 
To  the  commander  in  Hartford  he  was  Capt.  Jasper  W.  Ben- 
edict, of  A.  J.  Smith's  corps,  then  stationed  at  Memphis.  His 
company  was  a  picked  company,  and  had  been  sent  into  Ken- 
tucky especially  to  hunt  Guerrillas  and  exterminate  them.  Did 
any  Federal  thereabouts  know  aught  of  Guerrilla  ways  or 
people?  It  would  give  Capt.  Benedict  great  pleasure  to  have 
pointed  out  to  him  any  bands  in  the  neighborhood  that  needed 
breaking  up.  Captain  Barnette,  a  Federal  officer  at  the  post 
there,  thought  he  knew  of  several  cases  where  a  little  killing 
would  clear  up  the  military  atmosphere  amazingly,  and  so 
solicited  and  obtained  permission  from  Capt.  Benedict  to 
accompany  him  upon  the  hunt.  Barnette,  between  his  own  men 
and  the  men  who  were  eager  to  volunteer  for  any  service  that 
promised  plunder,  brought  to  swell  Quantrell's  ranks  thirty 
finely  armed  and  mounted  Federals,  thoroughly  equipped  and 
thoroughly  demonstrative. 

As  Quantrell  rode  out  in  an  easterly  direction  from  Hartford 
there  was  on  his  face  the  same  bad  look  that  many  of  his  men 


THE  WAS  FAKE  OF  THE  BOEDER 

had  noticed  the  morning  .the  Lawrence  massacre  began.  He 
was  polite  enough  to  Capt.  Barnette,  and  listened  attentively 
enough  to  his  garrulous  talk  of  rebel  comings  and  goings ;  but 
he  did  it  all  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  not  thinking  of  the 
present,  or  who  was  revolving  in  his  mind  the  pros  and  cons  of 
a  deed  that  he  had  not  yet  gained  the  consent  of  his  conscience 
to  commit.  Finally  he  ceased  talking  altogether  to  Barnette, 
and  called  to  his  side  Frank  James,  Burnes,  Glasscock  and 
William  Hulse.  Between  them  there  was  some  earnest  col- 
loquy. When  they  separated  Barnette  had  begun  to  be  commu- 
nicative again,  and  to  point  out  with  a  volubility  eminently  in 
keeping  with  the  patriotism  of  a  militiaman,  the  substance  that 
belonged  to  the  Southern  people  living  along  the  road  that 
should  be  wasted,  the  flocks  and  herds  that  should  be  confis- 
cated, and  the  houses  given  over  to  pillage  and  the  flames. 
While  he  was  talking,  however,  and  while  the  march  was  going 
on  so  placidly  and  so  peacefully  through  the  sparkling  winter 
weather,  one  by  one  the  Guerrillas  were  devouring  the  militia- 
men. Not  a  gun  was  fired,  not  a  pistol-shot  awoke  an  echo  in 
the  air.  At  every  quarter  of  a  mile  there  was  a  corpse,  maybe 
two.  Through  this  pretense  or  that,  and  because  of  a  solicita- 
tion here  or  a  special  pointing  out  yonder,  Federal  soldier 
after  Federal  soldier  dropped  back  to  the  rear  to  lay  hold  of 
some  rebel's  property  or  beat  up  the  hiding-places  about  his 
premises.  Not  one  returned  again  to  the  marching  column. 
Four  Guerrillas,  always  by  each  soldier's  side  with  a  rope,  hung 
him  in  some  lonesome  place  and  left  him  there,  stark  and  stiff, 
in  the  freezing  weather.  The  last  man  to  execute  thus  of  the 
detachment  of  thirty  was  a  singularly  tall  and  angular  man. 
Something  grotesque  about  his  figure,  perhaps,  awoke  the 
badinage  of  the  Guerrillas  detailed  to  hang  him,  and  they 
upbraided  him  savagely  for  being  a  bushwhacker.  "You  came 
to  us  ostensibly  as  a  Union  soldier,''  they  sneered,  "and  here 
you  are  as  full  of  rebel  venom  as  a  Northern  Copperhead  of  the 
Vallandingham  stripe.  You  can't  fool  this  crowd,  however. 
We  know  your  kind,  and  we  hang  them.  String  him  up,  boys!" 
Protesting  his  innocence  to  the  last  the  uncouth  victim  gave  in 
extremity,  and  as  a  crowning  argument  of  the  faith  that  was  in 
him,  the  fact  that  he  had  voted  for  Abraham  Lincoln.  As 
Glas  cock,  the  executioner,  rode  away  and  turned  to  take  a 


394  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

last  look  at  his  victim  swinging  to  and  fro  in  the  afternoon's 
sun,  he  said  sententiously  to  William  Hulse:  "At  first  I  took 
his  height  to  be  about  six  feet;  now  it  appears  to  me  to  be 
eight.  Do  people  grow  when  they  die?" 

From  the  rear  of  the  column  that  ferocious  Nemesis  which  all 
the  day  had  been  pursuing  its  voiceless  yet  vindictive  work, 
was  about  to  be  transferred  to  the  front.  Capt.  Barnette  was 
there,  riding  knee  to  knee  with  Quantrell.  Thrice  he  had  said : 
"I  do  not  see  my  men  ;  what  has  become  of  my  men?"  "They 
are  scouting  behind  us,"  was  Quantrell's  quiet  reply,  "and  if 
anything  happens  you  will  hear  of  it.  Do  not  be  uneasy." 
Later  on,  and  when  the  sun  was  about  two  hours  high,  Barnette 
spoke  up  again:  "I  see  the  most  of  your  men,  Capt.  Clark, 
but  I  do  not  see  any  of  mine.  Can  it  be  that  they  have 
returned?"  "Of  course  not,  Capt.  Barnette.  Are  you  not  in 
command  of  them?"  He  had  been  in  command  of  them,  but 
the  last  of  the  thirty  had  just  been  hung  twenty  minutes  before 
the  end  of  the  dialogue. 

Quantrell  left  the  front  at  this  time,  and  Eichard  Glasscock 
rode  up  to  the  left  side  of  Barnette.  As  Quantrell  rode  down 
the  column  his  quick  eyes  ran  along  the  ranks  quickly  of  his 
own  men  and  saw  that  not  a  single  Federal  soldier  marched 
with  the  files  of  the  Guerrillas;  then  his  brow  lifted.  He  even 
laughed  as  he  called  Frank  James  to  him  and  whispered  briefly 
in  his  ear,  and  apart  from  the  rest.  Frank  James  spurred  at 
once  to  the  front. 

The  sun  had  set,  red  and  threatening,  and  in  the  distance  the 
night  was  coming  on  apace.  It  was  not  far  to  a  stream  of  run- 
ning water,  on  the  banks  of  which  timber  abounded.  Barnette's 
surname  was  Frank  and  James'  was  the  same.  The  signal 
agreed  upon  was  a  simple  signal.  James  was  to  fall  in  with  the 
file  immediately  behind  Glasseock  and  Barnette,  and  Quantrell 
was  to  take  his  place  two  files  behind  James.  At  the  appointed 
time  Quantrell,  calling  out  sharply  the  single  word  "Frank," 
was  to  convey  thus  to  his  subordinate  the  order  to  shoot  the 
Federal  Captain.  At  the  creek  the  crossing  had  on  either  shore 
precipitous  banks,  and  when  the  bed  of  the  stream  was  reached 
the  twilight,  made  more  dense  by  the  trees,  darkened  the  space 
between  the  banks  perceptibly.  A  dozen  files,  reining  up  to 
drink,  filled  all  the  space  at  the  crossing,  and  looked  as  a  huge 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  395 

wedge  driven  in  there  and  fastened  as  if  to  keep  the  two  banks 
asunder.  .  For  deft  hands  at  killing,  and  for  wary  eyes  quick  at 
seeing  pistol  sights,  there  was  still  enough  light  left  to  give  the 
finishing  touches  to  the  last  of  a  detachment  of  thirty. 

"Frank!"  It  was  Quantrell's  voice  that  the  column  heard — 
questioning,  penetrating,  emphatic.  Barnette,  imagining  his 
own  name  to  have  been  called,  turned  once  fairly  in  his  saddle 
and  looked  down  along  to  the  rear  with  an  attentive  face  clearly 
unsuspecting.  As  he  did  so  the  muzzle  of  James'  huge  dragoon 
pistol  almost  touched  his  forehead.  He  neither  had  time  to 
speak  nor  to  cry  out.  A  single  shot — all  the  more  ringing 
because  so  unexpected — stirred  the  night  air  just  a  little,  and  a 
cold,  suggestive  splash  in  the  water  summed  up  for  the  nearest 
Guerrillas  the  meaning  of  the  tragedy.  Quantrell  scarce iy 
lifted  his  eyes.  Glasscock  looked  back  at  James  reproachfully 
and  spoke  to  him  as  if  upbraiding:  "As  I  rode  with  him  it  was 
my  right  to  kill  him.  You  shoot  well,  comrade,  but  you  shoot 
out  of  your  turn."  "Hush!"  answered  the  executioner;  "it 
was  the  order  of  Quantrell.'*  In  an  hour  this  episode — one  of 
a  thousand  such — was  as  old  as  the  leaves  of  the  summer 
maples. 

Tne  Guerrillas  camped  that  night  only  a  few  miles  further  to 
the  east,  and  as  they  returned  the  next  morning  past  the  cross- 
ing and  on  towards  Litchfield,  in  Grayson  county,  Captain  Bar- 
nette was  lying,  face  upward,  where  he  had  fallen.  During  the 
night  the  freezing  water  had  formed  for  the  wan,  drawn  features 
a  spotless  frame-work  of  ice.  The  eyes  looked  up  from  this, 
wide  open  and  appealing,  while  the  frost — as  if  to  banish  the 
ominous  splotch  from  the  perfect  repose  of  the  rigid  picture — 
had  spread  above  the  huge  round  wound  in  the  centre  of  the 
forehead  a  white  veil,  fringed  and  scintillant  in  the  morning  sun. 
As  Frank  James  rode  quietly  by  and  looked  his  last  on  the  evi- 
dence of  a  handiwork  he  had  labored  for  years  to  make  perfect, 
he  remarked  to  Hulse:  "Whether  just  or  unjust,  this  thing 
called  war  kills  all  alike  in  the  end.  To-day  a  Federal,  to- 
morrow a  Confederate — at  any  time  a  Guerrilla.  Whose  turn 
will  it  be  next?"  "What  matters  it,"  replied  his  comrade, 
"if  the  iinal  mustering-out  is  near  at  hand  for  all  of  us?  As 
for  me,  1  am  ready." 

The  final  mustering-out  was  near  at  hand  for  many  of 


396  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

At  Upton's  Station,  in  Hart  county,  Quantrell  crossed  the 
Louisiana  and  Nashville  Railroad,  still  representing  himself  and 
his  men  as  Federal  soldiers.  Near  Marion  county  he  entered 
the  Lebanon  and  Campbellville  turnpike  at  Rolling  Fork  and 
traveled  north  to  New  Market,  thence  east  to  Bradford,  and 
from  Bradford  towards  Hustonville,  camping  for  the  night  pre- 
ceding the  entrance  into  this  place  at  Major  Dray's,  on  Rolling 
Fork.  Thirty  Federal  soldiers  were  in  garrison  at  Hustonville, 
possessed  of  as  mary  horses  in  splendid  condition,  and  these 
Quantrell  determined  to  appropriate.  No  opposition  was  made 
to  his  entrance  into  the  town.  None  imagined  him  to  be  other 
than  a  Union  officer  on  a  scout.  He  dismounted  quietly  at  a 
hotel  in  the  place  and  entered  at  once  into  a  pleasant  conversa- 
tion with  the  commander  of  the  post.  Authorized  by  their  Chief- 
tain, however,  to  remount  themselves  as  speedily  and  as  thor- 
oughly as  possible,  the  Guerrillas  spread  quickly  over  the  town 
in  a  search  for  horses,  appropriating  first  what  could  be  found 
at  the  public  stables  and  later  on  those  that  were  still  needed  to 
supply  the  deficiency  from  the  private  places. 

As  Quantrell  conversed  with  the  commander,  a  Federal  private 
made  haste  to  inform  him  of  the  kind  of  work  the  new  comers 
were  doing,  and  to  complain  loudly  of  the  unwarranted  and 
outrageous  appropriation.  Enraged  and  excited,  the  com-, 
mander  snatched  up  a  brace  of  revolvers  as  he  left  his  head- 
quarters, and  buckled  them  about  him  as  he  hurried  to  the 
nearest  livery-stable  where  the  best  among  the  animals  of  his 
men  had  been  kept.  Just  as  he  arrived,  Allen  Farmer  was 
riding  out,  mounted  on  a  splendid  horse.  The  Federal  Major 
laid  hands  upon  the  bridle,  and  bade  Farmer  dismount.  It  was 
as  the  grappling  of  a  wave  with  a  rock.  No  Guerrilla  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  South  was  cooler  or  deadlier ;  none  less  pervious  to 
the  influences  and  emotions  of  physical  fear.  He  looked  at  the 
Federal  Major  a  little  curiously  when  he  first  barred  the  passage- 
way of  his  horse,  and  even  smiled  pleasantly  as  he  took  the 
trouble  to  explain  to  him  the  nature  of  the  instructions  under 
which  he  was  operating.  "D — n  you  and  d — n  your  instruc- 
tructions,"  the  Major  fiercely  shouted.  "Dismount!"  "Ah!" 
ejaculated  Farmer,  "has  it  really  come  to  this?"  and  then  the 
two  men  began  to  draw.  Unquestionably  there  could  be  but 
one  result.  The  right  hand  of  the  Federal  Major  had  scarcely 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  397 

reached  the  flap  of  his  revolver,  before  Farmer's  pistol  was 
against  his  forehead,  and  Farmer's  ballet  had  torn  half  the  top 
of  his  head  off.  He  fell  prone  under  the  horse's  feet,  with  many 
of  his  own  men  gathering  about  him.  A  dozen  muskets  covered 
Farmer.  "Hold  h^rd!  Hold  for  your  lives!"  shouted  Quan- 
tivll,  rushing  down  to  the  rescue,  followed  by  twenty  Guerrillas, 
"for  if  so  be  it  that  one  of  you  fires  a  gun  in  anger  I  swear  by  the 
God  above  us  all  to  murder  you  in  mass!"  The  terrible  look 
that  came  from  the  flashing  eyes  of  this  quiet  tiger  suddenly 
aroused,  the  pale  face  that  had  absolutely  become  frightful  in 
its  transformation,  the  avenging  attitude  of  the  whole  man — 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  threatening  Federals,  a  revolver  in 
each  hand,  made  the  soldiers  nearest  to  Farmer  lower  their 
weapons  involuntarily,  and  those  nearest  to  Quantrell  surrender 
theirs  without  a  blow.  In  a  score  of  minutes  more  not  a  single 
armed  enenry  existed  in  Hustonville,  and  beyond  the  dead  com- 
mander, no  other  life  was  take  i.  The  Guerrillas  secured  horses 
— fresh,  fine  unobjectionable  horses — but  they  secured  them  at 
the  sacrifice  of  the  protecting  uniform  they  wore.  Hereafter, 
Quantrell  was  Quantrell ;  he  could  not,  because  of  the  protest- 
ing corpse  lying  there  in  front  of  the  livery  stable,  be  any  longer 
Capt.  Benedict  or  Capt.  Clark.  Perhaps  Quantrell  himself  was 
tired  of  the  role.  Ferhaps  he  wanted  to  have  over  him  again 
the  folds  of  the  black  flag,  to  hear  the  winds  spread  again  the 
terrcr  of  his  deeds,  to  get  away  from  an  assumption  that  was 
galling  to  him,  to  meet  death — if  he  had  to  meet  it — as  became 
one  who  loved  the  name  that  he  had  done  so  much  to  render 
terrible.  In  any  event,  however,  the  end  may  not  have  been 
kept  back  or  hastened  by  anything  said  of  human  speech  or 
fashioned  of  human  hands. 

At  Danville,  the  next  place  entered  after  the  tragedy  at 
Hustonville,  a  lady  advanced  cordially  to  Quantrell,  frankly 
extended  her  hand,  and  addressed  him  by  his  proper  name. 
He  did  not  recognize  the  woman,  but  he  did  not  deny  the  truth- 
fulness of  her  recognition.  Flattered  because  of  an  acquaint- 
ance with  a  Guerrilla  at  once  oO  noted  and  so  successful,  and 
anxious  to  make  known  as  widely  as  possible  the  news  of  hi& 
arrival  in  Kentucky,  this  woman  told  everything  she  knew. 
Though  told  of  course  always  as  a  great  secret,  it  was  yet  told 
nevertheless.  Finally  the  story  took  wings  and  flew  everywhere  a& 


398  NOTED  GUEEEILLAS,  OK 

a  bird.  Corroborative  testimony  impressed  it  upon  the  readily 
impressionable  nerves  of  the  Federal  authorities.  Dead  men 
began  to  be  found  here  and  there.  The  stark  human  fruit  the 
trees  bore  the  wind  shook  down.  Barnette's  face,  looking  out 
from  its  placid  picture-frame,  was  seen  and  recognized.  The 
Hustonville  encounter  enraged  the  regiment  to  which  belonged 
the  unfortunate  Major  who  in  hunting  for  horses  had  penetrated 
a  jungle.  There  was  mustering  and  marching,  and  the  State 
was  in  arms. 

And  in  Danville  also  there  was  another  episode.  About  the 
town,  as  about  almost  every  other  town  or  city  in  Kentucky, 
there  were  a  few  armed  Federals  who  seemed  to  pay  very  little 
attention  to  Quantrell's  men  one  way  or  the  other.  Evidently 
they  did  not  believe  them  to  be  Guerrillas ;  certainly  they  did 
not  know  them  to  be  such.  Quantrell  himself  took  no  note  of 
them.  He  came  and  went  as  he  always  did,  alone  and  non- 
chalently.  There  was  one  among  the  Federals,  however,  a 
Lieutenant,  who  had  heard  some  portionb  of  the  woman's  con- 
versation earlier  in  the  day,  and  who — to  satisfy  himself  and  to 
justify  the  deed  he  was  about  to  do — added  enough  to  the 
glimpses  already  obtained  from  his  own  imagination  to  identify 
the  leader  of  the  newly  arrived  detachment  as  the  famous 
Guerrilla  Quantrell.  He  cleaned,  therefore,  a  Mississippi  rifle 
carefully,  loaded  it  as  though  upon  every  grain  of  powder  behind 
the  ball  there  depended  a  life,  buckled  about  him  four  navy  revol- 
vers, and  commenced  at  his  own  time  and  in  his  own  fashion  to 
hunt  for  his  man.  Quantrell  noticed  this  officer  in  uniform,  and 
wondered  what  he  was  doing  with  the  gun  of  a  private.  For  an 
hour  and  more  as  he  went  from  place  to  place,  he  saw  this  Lieu- 
tenant, now  before  him,  now  behind  him,  and  not  unfrequently 
close  at  his  side.  He  never  supposed  at  any  time  that  he  was  being 
watched,  much  less  was  he  prepared  for  what  followed.  It  was 
near  the  dinner  hour ;  the  first  bell  at  the  hotel  in  Danville  had 
sounded.  Quantrell,  still  alone  and  perfectly  unsuspicious, 
entered  a  convenient  saloon  for  a  drink,  and  while  standing  at 
the  bar  and  facing  it,  he  saw  in  the  glass  before  him  the  Lieu- 
tenant fill  up  the  doorway,  rifle  in  hand.  Just  as  he  turned 
about  he  was  covered.  The  gaping  muzzle  was  scarcely  three 
feet  from  his  breast,  and  the  eye  that  ran  down  the  barrel  was  a 
cold,  keen  eye,  full  of  pluck  and  purpose.  Quantrell's  heavy 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  399 

overcoat  was  buttoned  to  the  chin.  His  pistols  were  about  him, 
but  for  the  emergency  that  was  upon  him,  they  had  just  as  well 
have  been  in  California.  He  did  not  feel  that  his  heart  beat  the 
smallest  traction  of  a  second  faster.  He  felt  no  blood  rush  to 
his  face.  He  leant  languidly  back  against  the  counter,  held  up 
the  whisky  glass  in  his  hand,  as  if  to  let  the  light  filter  through 
it  and  irradiate  it,  and  then  spoke  to  the  Federal  in  a  tone 
betwixt  an  enquiry  and  a  caress:  uHow  now,  comrade?  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  that  gun?"  "Shoot  you  like  a  dog  if 
you  stir!"  You  are  Quantrell.  You  have  played  it  for  a  long 
time,  but  you  have  about  played  the  farce  out  at  last.  March 
into  that  room  to  the  right  of  you  there !" 

Quantrell  did  not  stir  a  finger.  He  cast  his  eyes  quickly  to 
the  right  without  moving  his  head,  and  saw  the  bar- keeper,  evi- 
dently in  league  with  the  Lieutenant,  holding  a  door  open  for 
him  to  enter.  Many  things  were  clear  to  Quantrell,  now — the 
clearest  thing  being  that  he  did  not  mean  to  obey  the  Lieutenant. 
Once  well  within  the  confines  of  this  apartment,  and  guarded  in 
the  perfectness  and  the  quietness  of  its  isolation,  he  might  be 
held  there  until  his  men — unable  to  find  him — abandoned  the 
town,  or  until  a  heavy  body  of  Federals — already  in  swift  pursuit 
no  doubt — came  upon  his  track  and  finished  his  following  at  a 
blow.  If  he  had  to  take  the  risk  of  being  killed  while  he  haz- 
arded everything  upon  the  chance  of  getting  at  a  pistol,  he 
meant  to  take  it  standing  there  by  the  bar  and  nearer  to  the 
daylight.  Superb  nerve,  however,  and  the  coolness  for  which 
he  was  noted,  prevented  the  worst  from  coming  to  the  worst. 
Still  holding  the  whisky  in  his  hand,  and  still  leaning  back 
against  the  counter  negligently,  he  spoke  to  the  Lieutenant  and 
smiled  as  he  spoke:  "  You  take  me  for  Quantrell,  but  you  do 
wrong.  Permit  me  to  call  my  orderly  sergeant,  who  has  all  my 
papers,  and  a  glance  at  them  will  convince  you  in  a  moment 
that  I  am  as  true  to  the  cause  of  the  Union  as  you  are."  The 
Federal  Lieutenant — surprised  somewhat  at  the  unruffled  bear- 
ing of  the  man,  and  never  from  the  first  perfectly  assured  of  the 
identity  of  his  prisoner — weakened  visibly.  Quantrell  contin- 
ued, sure  now  of  a  way  out  from  his  uncomfortable  predicament: 
"I  have  heard,  perhaps,  the  same  stories  you  have  heard  about 
the  whereabouts  of  the  famous  Missouri  Guerrilla,  and  if  I  had 
not  been  officially  informed  to  the  contrary,  equally  with  your- 


400  NOTED  GUEEBILLA8,  OH 

self  I  might  have  believed  them.  He  is  not  in  Kentucky,  to  my 
certain  knowledge,  and  you  are  making  a  d — d  fool  of  your- 
self. Put  down  your  gun,  pull  off  your  pistols,  and  as  long  as 
we  are  comrades  let  us  be  friends." 

Not  entirely  convinced,  and  yet  more  than  half  way  ashamed  of 
the  part  he  was  playing,  the  Lieutenant  stepped  away  from  the 
door  several  feet  and  bade  Quantrell  call  his  orderly  sergeant, 
keeping  him  still  covered  with  the  gaping  muzzle  of  the  Missis- 
sippi rifle.  Luckily  the  saloon  was  but  a  short  distance  from 
the  hotel,  while  about  the  hotel  the  bulk  of  the  Guerrillas 
were  grouped  waiting  for  the  second  ringing  of  the  dinner  bell. 
Standing  indifferently  in  this  doorway,  with  his  back  to  the 
covering  rifle,  Quantrell  called  out  quietly:  "John  Barker!" 
Several  of  the  men  saw  him  standing  there  and  started  down  to 
the  saloon.  "Go  back  all  of  you,"  he  said ;  "I  only  wane  John 
Barker."  John  Barker  came.  As  he  entered  the  saloon  he 
saw  the  leveled  gun  bearing  upon  his  commander,  and  his 
pistol  came  out  from  its  scabbard  so  quickly  that  the  Lieu- 
tenant, to  save  his  own  life,  turned  the  muzzle  of  the  rifle  from 
Quantrell  to  Barker.  "Stop,  sergeant,"  said  Quantrell,  "you 
are  too  fast.  Put  back  your  pistol.  There  need  to  be  no 
killing  here.  Our  friend,  the  Lieutenant  yonder,  has  heard 
much  of  Quantrell  of  late,  has  made  up  his  mind  to  the  fact 
that  I  arn  Quantrell,  has  armed  himself  like  an  arsenal  to 
capture  Quantrell,  has  followed  me  here  and  got  the  drop  on 
me  here,  and  to  convince  him  of  his  mistake  and  to  show  him 
how  absurd  and  ungenerous  he  has  been,  I  have  called  you 
here  as  my  orderly  sergeant  to  show  him  our  special  orders, 
and  to  put  into  his  hands  the  authority  of  no  less  a  person  than 
the  Secretary  of  War  himself,  Edwin  M.  Stanton,  per  A.  J. 
Smith.  Show  him  these  papers,  Barker,  and  then  we  will  go  to 
dinner."  Barker  stepped  forward  close  to  the  Lieutenant,  felt 
carefully  a  moment  or  two  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat, 
rattled  something  there  audibly  that  sounded  like  a  package, 
and  then  all  of  a  sudden  and  with  the  spring  of  a  tiger-cat  he 
threw  himself  upon  the  Federal  officer,  cast  aside  the  Missis- 
sippi rifle  with  his  left  hand,  thrust  into  his  face  and  close  to  it 
the  muzzle  of  a  dragoon  revolver,  and  spoke  up  to  him 
quaintly:  "These  are  the  papers,  I  reckon,  you  was  expectin'. 
I  keep  just  sich  things  for  people  like  you.  They  carry  a 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER 


401 


fellow  a  long  ways,  and  the  oftener  you  show  them  the  furder 
they  carry  you.  Say  the  word,  Captain,  and  I'll  put  the  old 
mark  on* him  between  the  eyes."  But  Quantrell  did  not  say 
the  word.  Indeed,  he  ^rather  seemed  to  enjoy  the  episode,  and 
to  think  more  of  the  Lieutenant  for  the  coolness  he  had 
displayed  and  the  hardihood  he  had  made  manifest.  As  for  the 
Lieutenant,  he  expressed  himself  as  thoroughly  satisfied  with 
Barker's  papers,  stipulating  only  that  a  social  glass  should  be 
taken  all  around  and  the  episode  itself  kept  a  secret  from  the 
balance  of  the  soldiers. 

After  dinner  Quantrell  marched  northwest  from  Danville 
towards  Washington,  and  halted  the  command  at  sunset  eight 
miles  from  Harrodsburg.  There  were  present  and  in  line  every 
man  who  had  crossed  the  Mississippi  river  except  Lieutenant 
James  Little,  the  following  being  the  role  and  the  roster  of  the 
little  band: 

OFFICERS. 

William  C.  Quantrell,  Captain. 

James  Little,  First  Lieutenant. 

Chatham  Renick,  Second  Lieutenant, 

John  Barker,  Orderly  Sergeant. 

PRIVATES. 

Richard  Burnes, 

James  Evans, 

William  Gaugh, 

Isaac  Hall, 

William  Hulse, 

Foss  Ney, 

Bud  Pence, 

George  Wigginton, 

John  McCorkle, 

Henry  Noland, 

George  Roberson, 

James  Younger. 

Little  had  already  been  killed,  and  more  were  to  follow 
speedily.  After  the  halt,  and  the  inspection  of  his  command, 
Quantrell  ordered  John  Barker  to  go  with  ten  men  to  the  house 
near  which  the  inspection  took  place  and  procure  rations  for  the 
night  and  ample  forage.  Accompanied  by  Lieutenant  Renick 
and  the  balance  of  the  company,  Quantrell  marched  a  mile  fur- 
26 


Ves  Acres, 
John  Barnhill, 
Jack  Graham, 
David  Helton, 
Clark  Hockensmith, 
Frank  James, 
Allen  Farmer, 
Ran  Venable, 
James  Lilly, 
Andy  McGuire, 
Donnie  Pence, 


William  Basham, 
Richard  Glasscock, 
Thomas  Harris, 
Robert  Hall, 
Payne  Jones, 
William  Noland, 
John  Ross, 
Peyton  Long, 
Lee  McMurtry, 
Henry  Porter, 
James  Williams, 


402  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

tker,  halted  at  a  hospitable  mansion,  and  made  preparations 
to  spend  the  night.  The  Guerrillas,  however,  had  scarcely 
finished  the  evening  meal  when  a  furi  ous  volley  came  back  from 
the  direction  of  the  house  at  which  Sergeant  Barker  had  stop- 
ped, followed  by  the  fierce  counter-fighting  of  determined  men. 
In  a  moment  Renick  was  mounted  and  on  the  road  at  a  gallop 
to  fathom  the  meaning  of  the  fusillade.  He  did  not  return. 
Quantrell  made  his  detachment  take  horse  instantly,  get  into  line, 
and  get  ready.  Then  ordering  Allen  Farmer,  Payne  Jones,  Will- 
iam Hulse  and  Frank  James  to  go  forward  rapidly  and  ascertain 
the  worst  or  the  best,  he  took  an  excellent  position  himself, 
available  for  either  advance  or  retreat.  The  sound  of  the 
firing  waxed  louder  and  fiercer.  The  four  men  rus  lied  away  at 
a  pace  that  had  business  in  it — quick,  unmistakable,  absolute. 
Half  a  mile  out  on  the  road  Frank  James'  horse  swerved 
swiftly  to  one  side,  and  shook  him,  superb  rider  as  he  was, 
seriously  in  the  saddle.  A  dead  man  lay  there,  where  the  horse 
had  swerved,  face  downward  and  gigantic  in  the  gathering  twi- 
light. Over  him  stood  his  faithful  horse,  all  but  human  in  his 
faithfulness  and  compassion.  Taught  by  kindness  to  revere  his 
master  and  trained  to  go  when  he  went  and  stop  when  he  stop- 
ped, death  never  severed  the  tie  nor  broke  down  the  old  habits 
between  them.  Living,  he  loved  him — dead,  he  was  at  his  side. 

Hulse  dismounted  and  lifted  up  a  white  face  to  what  little 
was  left  of  the  daylight,  and  cried  aloud:  "It's  our  Lieuten- 
ant, boys ;  it's  Renick.  Through  his  head  there  has  been  put  a 
ball  larger  than  a  pistol  ball." 

Sergeant  Barker's  detachment,  including  himself,  numbered 
eleven — Ves  Acres,  Richard  Burnes,  Richard  Glasscock,  George 
Roberson,  James  Evans,  James  Williams,  Andy  McGuire, 
William  Gaugh,  William  Noland  and  Henry  Noland.  They 
had  unsaddled  and  fed  their  horses  and  were  about  to 
begin  their  own  supper  when  Major  Bridgewater,  com- 
manding one  hundred  and  eighty  Federal  cavalry,  dashed  up  to 
the  house,  surrounded  it  on  every  side,  cut  off  the  men  from 
their  horses,  and  opened  a  furious  fire  upon  the  doors  and  the 
windows  of  the  dwelling.  The  Guerrillas,  used  to  either  extreme 
of  fortune,  accepted  the  issue  as  it  was  made  up  for  them,  and 
fought  as  they  had  fought  for  four  years — as  wild  beasts  hunted 
hard  and  hemmed  at  last.  In  their  extremity  they  were  mag- 


THE  WARFABE  OF  THE  BOEDER  403 

nanimous ;  in  their  furious  grapple  they  were  full  of  chivalry. 
Gathering  together  all  of  the  family  in  the  safest  room  of  the 
mansion — the  room  least  pervious  to  bullets  and  least  exposed — 
Ves  Acres,  as  he  put  into  the  arms  of  its  mother  the  youngest 
child,  said  consolingly  though  rather  quaintly:  "Don't  expose 
yourself  for  the  sake  of  this  little  thing,  not  much  bigger  than  a 
rabbit.  Keep  away  from  the  windows ;  keep  close  to  the  floor ; 
do  not  get  excited  ;  do  not  cry  if  any  of  us  get  killed.  What 
matters  a  Guerrilla  more  or  less  in  this  world?"  And  then  with 
a  smile  on  his  face  and  a  great  resolution  in  his  eyes,  this  brave, 
steadfast  Missouri  hero  turned  quietly  to  his  duty  and  fought 
like  a  lion  until  he  was  shot  down. 

Eleven  men  against  one  hundred  and  eighty !  It  was  fitting, 
perhaps,  that  in  those  last  days  of  Quantrell  such  soldiers  as  he 
led  should  fight  such  odds.  It  is  the  revenge  courage  takes 
upon  history  which  does  not  see  the  immense  heroism  of  the 
Guerrilla  while  groping  beneath  his  uniform  for  his  bloody  hands 
and  holding  them  up  to  the  reprobation  of  mankind. 

The  fight  was  the  fight  of  a  house  against  a  fence,  a  tree,  a 
barn,  a  pile  of  lumber,  an  out-building,  a  covering  of  any  kind 
large  enough  to  wholly  or  even  partially  shelter  a  trooper. 
Bridgewater  wasted  no  lives  foolishly.  He  did  not  assault  the 
mansion ;  he  did  not  permit  his  men  to  expose  themselves  reck- 
lessly ;  he  would  not  resort  to  the  torch  because  the  house  held 
by  the  Guerrillas  was  the  house  of  a  Union  man,  and  yet  his  loss 
was  heavy — thirty-two  killed  and  eighteen  wounded.  Barker 
was  killed.  As  he  fell  he  tried  to  speak,  but  death  caught  his 
speech  just  on  its  utterance  and  strangled  it  to  all  eternity. 
Ves  Acres  took  him  up  reverently,  smoothed  out  the  locks  of  his 
long  hair,  closed  tenderly  the  dauntless  eyes  wide  open  to  where 
the  dead  man  may  have  thought  the  good  God  to  be,  and  said  as 
if  in  sorrow:  "  Boys,  if  I  knew  a  prayer  I  would  say  it  here 
for  John  Barker.  He  was  true,  he  was  brave,  he  never  went 
back  on  his  word,  he  never  left  a  comrade  when  it  was  touch 
and  go  and  the  devil  a  grabbing  for  the  hindmost,  he  never 
faltered  because  it  was  dark  in  the  South  and  the  men  many 
days  had  neither  rations  nor  cartridges ;  but  he's  gone.  God 
take  care  of  you,  John."  If  he  had  been  praying  instead  of 
lighting  for  the  past  four  years,  Ves  Acres  could  have  told  to 
the  Infinite  no  truer  or  tenderer  story. 


404:  NOTED  GUEEBILLAS,   OR 

Henry  Noland  fell  next,  killed  as  he  fought  at  a  window. 
The  ammunition  of  the  Guerrillas  was  becoming  exhausted,  and 
a  council  of  war  was  called.  "  I  have  eight  rounds,"  said  Dick 
Glasscock,  "  and  I  but  four,"  spoke  up  Andy  McGuire. 
Others  had  more  or  less,  the  average  being  five  to  the  man. 
Ves  Acres  answered  at  last  for  all:  "While  there  is  a  ballet 
left  there  will  be  a  man  to  shoot  it.  No  surrender  if  there  is  a 
cartridge." 

Brief  as  was  this  dialogue,  before  it  was  finished  William 
Noland  was  killed  standing  face  to  face  with  Richard  Glasscock 
and  talking  to  him.  Brothers  they  were — these  two  young 
Nolands — and  in  the  full  vigor  of  ardent  and  stalwart  manhood. 
As  they  lay  side  by  side  on  the  floor  of  a  fort  they  had  died  in 
defending,  some  wind  from  without  blew  over  the  face  of  one 
the  hair  of  the  other.  Was  it  a  caress?  Did  the  first  who  had 
crossed  the  wonderful  river  send  this  as  a  token  to  tell  the  other 
that  all  was  well  ?  Who  knows  ?  The  Guerrilla  has  a  God  as 
well  as  the  grenadier. 

Ves  Acres  was  down  now.  There  were  but  two  rounds  left  to 
the  man.  He  had  been  shot  in  the  right  side  and  the  left  shoul- 
der, and  was  too  weak  to  rise  to  his  place  at  the  window.  The 
rifle  balls 'of  the  besiegers  were  coming  through  the  planks  of 
the  dwelling-house.  No  spot  was  safe.  Death  was  at  the  win- 
dows, at  the  doors — everywhere.  There  was  no  longer  any 
more  ammunition.  Some  dead  Federals  were  close  to  the  house 
outside,  and  Glasscock  proposed  that  those  who  had  a  round 
yet  left  in  their  revolvers  should  make  a  last  rush  for  the  road 
and  for  Quantrell.  "  Good !"  said  Ves  Acres,  "  very  good.  I 
will  go  with  you."  He  tried  to  drag  his  crippled  body  up  to 
his  knees,  and  from  his  knees  to  his  feet,  but  he  fell  over  again 
as  a  child  who  had  not  yet  learned  how  to  walk.  All  his  wounds 
bled  afresh.  "No  use,"  he  said,  pleasantly.  "  I  have  a  couple 
of  chambers  left  yet.  Take  my  pistol,  Glasscock,  and  use  it  as 
you  have  need.  It's  a  good  pistol;  it  has  done  a  power  of 
shooting  in  its  day ;  it  has  two  loads  left,  and  two  loads  some- 
tunes  are  worth  more  than  two  wagon  loads  of  gold." 

There  was  a  grand  rush  now  of  the  survivors — seven  in  all — 
who  fired  once  as  they  leaped  the  fence,  and  once  more  as  they 
struck  the  line  of  ambushed  Federals  be3'ond  it.  The  answer- 
ing volley — close,  and  hot,  and  full  of  vengeance — covered 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  405 

them  with  a  cloud  of  smoke.  When  the  smoke  lifted  Glasscock 
was  down,  Williams  was  down,  McGuire  was  down,  Barnes — • 
shot  twice,  was  unable  to  continue  his  rush — while  Roberson, 
Evans,  and  Gaugh — surrounded  on  all  sides  and  powerless  with 
empty  pistols — surrendered  to  Major  Bridge  water.  Then  there 
was  a  great  stillness.  The  Federals  swarmed  about  the  wounded 
and  captured  Guerrillas  and  began  to  deal  with  them  as  each 
man's  generosity  or  vindictiveness  suggested.  One  smote 
McGuire  in  the  face,  wounded  as  he  was,  and  another  put  a  pis- 
tol to  the  head  of  Burnes,  threatening  to  blow  out  his  brains. 
McGuire  snapped  his  empty  revolver  at  the  coward  who  struck 
him,  and  would  have  been  killed  instantly  in  return,  if  Bridge- 
water's  roaring  voice  had  not  driven  the  Federal  aggressor 
away  abashed  and  threatened  instant  death  to  any  one  who 
further  interfered  with  a  prisoner.  At  this  moment  the  four 
men  sent  back  by  Quantrell  to  develop  the  situation,  fired  point 
blank  into  the  Federal  mass  gathered  about  the  Guerrillas  and 
charged  up  to  the  very  fence  that  surrounded  the  house. 
Renick  had  been  killed  eight  hundred  yards  from  Bridgewater's 
position — shot  through  the  head — and  it  was  only  by  taking  a 
dangerous  fire  themselves  and  charging  full  tilt  down  upon  the 
enemy  that  Frank  James  and  his  three  companions  were  enabled 
to  return  to  Quantrell  and  report  truthfully  that  all  of  Barker's 
detachment  were  either  killed,  wounded,  or  captured. 

Hard  hit  and  as  much  dead  as  alive,  Glasscock — when  ordered 
by  Bridge  water  to  unbuckle  his  belt  and  surre  nder  his  pistols — 
refused  to  do  so.  "I  have  sworn  never  to  give  them  up  volun- 
tarily, and  give  them  I  never  will.  Kill  me  if  it  so  pleases 
you,  and  then  unbuckle  my  belt  for  yourself.  Dead  men  have  no 
sentiments."  A  Federal  trooper  covered  him  in  a  twinkling  and 
cursed  him  bitterly  as  he  spoke  to  him:  "  Be  quick!  O ft' with 
them,  g — d  d — n  you.  What  right  has  a  lousy  beggar  like  you  to 
be  a  chooser?"  "Hush!"  commanded  Bridge  water,  "he  is  too 
brave  a  man  to  be  either  shot  or  insulted.  I  will  disarm  him 
myself,"  and  as  he  spoke  he  unbuckled  the  Guerrilla's  belt, 
containing  its  six  dragoon  pistols,  and  handed  it  to  his  orderly. 
He  tried  to  restrain  himself,  poor  fellow,  but  in  spite  of  his 
efforts,  large  tear-drops  forced  themselves  from  his  eyes  and 
ran  down  upon  his  breast.  And  of  the  eleven,  how  many  to- 
day survive  to  read  this  story  of  the  combat  literally  to  the 


406  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

death.  Barker  and  the  two  Nolands  fell  in  the  house;  later 
on  Glasscock  died  over  QuantrelPs  crippled  body  trying  to  save 
it ;  Andy  McGuire  was  hung  by  a  vigilance  committee  in  Ray 
county ;  Richard  Burnes  was  murdered  in  Jackson  county ; 
George  Roberson  was  hung  soon  after  in  Lexington,  charged 
falsely  with  being  the  soldier  who  killed  the  Federal  officer  in 
Hustonville ;  Acres  recovered  and  is  living  to-day  in  Missouri, 
while  Evans,  Gaugh,  and  Williams — somewhere  near  the 
setting  sun — 

"are  content  and  clever 
In  tending  of  cattle  and  tossing  of  clover, 
In  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the  growing  of  grain." 

Bridgewater  was  a  brave  man ,  even  where  the  odds  were  not 
in  his  favor;  having  the  advantage,  he  pushed  the  crippled  Guer- 
Guerrilla  band  to  the  wall.  All  that  night  and  all  the  next  day  the 
hammering  at  QuantrelPs  rear  went  on — the  Missourians  fighting 
as  they  had  fought  two  hundred  times  before.  Ambuscades  were 
tried  with  good  effect.  Bridgewater  did  not  know  apparently 
what  possibilities  there  were  connected  with  an  ambuscade.  He 
believed  he  could  ride  through,  or  ride  down,  or  ride  over  every- 
thing. Quantrell  undeceived  him  speedily.  During  the  night 
pursuit  succeeding  his  successful  attack  upon  the  little  squad 
under  Barker,  he  lost  eleven  of  his  boldest  riders.  By  daylight 
he  was  desperate  but  not  convinced ;  more  wary,  perhaps,  but 
scarcely  any  more  cautious.  Another  sudden  snare  was  nec- 
essary to  make  the  furious  hunter  appreciate  at  its  ultimate 
worth  the  game  that  had  been  long  afoot  and  for  a  night  and 
a  day  in  the  front  of  him. 

The  traveled  road  towards  ten  o'clock  crossed  a  bold  stream 
abruptly.  On  the  further  bank  where  it  came  up  from  the 
water  it  ran  for  fifty  feet  or  more  between  perpendicular  banks, 
rocky  but  wooded.  On  either  side  six  Guerrillas  were  posted, 
in  the  road  in  front  and  back  some  distance  from  the  crossing 
nine  more  under  Quantrell  in  person  were  massed  to  charge 
the  pursuers  when  they  should  have  received  the  fire  of  those 
commanding  the  cut,  while  the  remaining  four — consisting  of 
John  Barnhill,  John  Ross,  John  McCorkle  and  John  Graham, 
were  sent  back  half  a  mile  to  skirmish  with  Bridgewater  and 
lure  him  forward.  The  four  Johns  were  four  giants.  Not  in 
size — because  they  were  young  and  beardless — but  in  dash, 
enterprise  and  intrepidity.  Barnhill  was  a  sleepless,  vigilant, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  407 

gay-hearted,  laughing  Guerrilla,  who  would  fight  all  day  and 
frolic  all  night.  Sometimes  between  his  scouts  and  his  slumbers 
there  was  a  lapse  of  fifty  hours.  John  Ross  was  a  boy  turned 
Paladin.  Ordered  to  charge,  he  would  have  ridden  over  a 
precipice.  Looking  at  his  face,  one  would  have  said:  There  is 
an  amiable  youth ;  at  his  attitude  in  battle :  there  is  an  oak  tree. 
McCorkle  and  Graham  were  of  that  old  iron  breed  who  had  seen 
death  so  often  and  in  so  many  sudden  and  curious  ways  that  he 
had  become  to  be  regarded  as  an  old  acquaintance.  The  four 
had  begun  by  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  when  he  approached ; 
they  would  end  by  saying:  "How  now,  comrade?" 

Barnhill — by  a  sort  of  intrepid  assurance — took  command  of 
the  four  and  posted  them  wisely — two  on  one  side  of  the  road 
and  two  on  the  other.  "Most  likely,"  he  argued,  "the  first 
volley  of  these  fellows  following  us  will  go  between  the  two 
flanks." 

Bridgewater  came  on  at  a  swinging  trot.  Barnhill  leaped 
recklessly  into  the  middle  of  the  highway,  fired  thrice  at  the 
foremost  files,  followed  by  the  balance  of  the  Guerrillas  in  a 
deadly  volley,  and  then  retreated,  seemingly  without  understand- 
ing or  firmness  of  purpose.  Bridgewater's  men  yelled  once 
fiercely  and  broke  from  a  trot  into  a  furious  gallop.  Over  the 
creek  at  a  dead  run,  an4  up  through  the  narrow  way  beyond 
the  pursuers  and  pursued  came  as  a  thunder  cloud,  the  revolver 
vollies  the  electric  explosions.  Then  the  trees  as  it  were  joined 
in  the  melee.  The  Guerrillas  behind  them  —  safe  to  a  large 
extent  from  any  fire  directed  from  below — shot  coolly  and  with  a 
deadly  precision  into  the  compact  mass,  filling  the  ambushed 
gorge.  Then  Quantrell  charged  just  in  the  first  wild  moment 
of  the  Federal  agony — that  supreme  moment  when  the  bravest 
who  were  ever  chosen  for  battle  must  have  time  to  think  a 
second  and  get  just  a  second's  breath  if  they  would  not  fall 
away  panic  stricken  or  run  as  those  run  who  are  not  pursued. 
No  combat  of  the  war  excelled  this  for  prowess  and  execution. 
Frank  James  surpassed  himself;  Allen  Farmer  multiplied  his 
capabilities  as  a  fighter ;  Payne  Jones — a  pistol  shot  never  sur- 
passed among  the  Guerillas — improved,  if  that  were  possible, 
upon  his  markmanship ;  James  Younger — riding  a  fleet,  power- 
ful horse,  led  the  pursuit  and  refrained  from  killing  a  handsome 
young  Federal  whose  own  steed  was  crippled,  and  who  could 


408  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

not  escape  with  his  comrades.  Younger  captured  him,  secured 
for  him  a  fresh  horse,  paroled  him,  and  bade  him  go  free. 
Clark  Hockensmith,  close  by  Quantrell's  side,  saw  a  Federal 
aiming  at  his  Chief  from  behind  a  tree,  and  spurred  his  horse 
instantly  between  the  sharp-shooter  and  the  sharp-shooter's 
mark.  The  bullet  intended  for  Quantrell  killed  Hockensmith's 
horse,  but  in  a  second  George  Wigginton  had  killed  the  sharp- 
shooter. What  was  done  in  that  fight  had  need  to  be  done 
quickly.  William  Hulse,  carried  away  by  a  battle  ardor  that  he 
very  rarely  ever  cared  to  curb,  fought  his  way  into  the  midst  of 
the  struggling  and  stricken  Federal  rear  only  to  be  surrounded 
in  turn  and  put  in  desperate  jeopardy.  John  Barnhill,  John 
Ross,  John  McCorkle,  John  Graham,  fighting  altogether,  cut 
him  out,  helped  by  Lee  McMurtry,  William  Basham,  Bud  Pence 
and  Donnie  Pence.  Thomas  Harris,  Isaac  Hall,  David  Helton, 
and  Robert  Hall  were  wounded  slightly  but  fought  all  the  harder, 
killing  two  men  each  and  capturing  five  valuable  horses.  Henry 
Porter  won  the  admiration  of  the  whole  command  by  an  exhibi- 
tion of  superb  coolness  and  dash.  He  was  cut  off  from  Quan- 
trell and  fired  at  by  six  Federal  cavalrymen  who  closed  in  upon 
him  and  would  have  killed  him  but  for  his  own  rapid  fighting  and 
the  help  of  a  few  comrades.  Ran  Venable,  nearest  to  him,  rushed 
to  his  assistance,  followed  by  Frank  James,  Peyton  Long,  and 
James  Lilly.  These,  together  with  Porter,  killed  the  six  who 
were  about  him,  and  four  others  who  rushed  up  to  succor  the 
six.  The  gorge  was  now  cleared  o/  all  save  the  dead  and  the 
wounded.  Bridge  water — in  a  melee  that  had  not  lasted  longer 
than  twenty  minutes — had  lost  in  killed  fifty-two  of  his  bravest 
followers,  and  in  wounded  seven.  He  withdrew  the  remnant  of 
his  shattered  advance  speedily  from  the  gorge,  reformed  his 
ranks  on  the  open  ground  beyond,  and  came  on  slowly  in 
pursuit  and  after  the  lapse  of  some  time,  but  always  thereafter 
in  skirmishing  order.  The  lesson  taught  him  was  a  bitter  one, 
but  it  may  have  been  useful  as  well.  It  saved  Quantrell  also. 
Eight  of  his  men  were  wounded — none  of  them,  however,  very 
seriously  —  but  whenever  he  formed  in  the  future  and  faced 
about  as  if  to  fight,  those  who  were  following  him  did  him  at 
least  the  honor  of  forming  too  and  coming  towards  him  slowly 
and  in  cautious  array. 
Snow  lay  upon  the  ground  to  the  depth  of  at  least  four  inches, 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  400 

and  a  cold  north  wind  cut  like  a  knife.  The  pursuit  of  the 
night  had  to  light  it  a  splendid  winter  moon ;  of  the  day  a  great 
garment  of  white  that  filled  all  the  woods  and  the  ways.  But 
the  Guerrillas,  inured  to  every  hardship  and  proof  against  every 
extreme,  starved  and  fought,  and  fought  and  froze  for  a  stretch 
of  fifty-two  hours,  losing  sight  of  Bridge  water  and  his  con- 
stantly increasing  column  of  pursurers  in  Washington  county. 
After  food,  rest  and  forage  Quantrell  rode  on  into  Chaplain, 
in  Nelson  county,  where  he  arrived  early  in  the  afternoon. 
Just  as  he  had  passed  well  to  the  centre  of  the  city,  Captain 
Edward  Terrell,  at  the  head  of  sixty  Federal  Guerrillas,  reached 
the  outskirts  of  Chaplain,  hard  upon  his  track.  Terrell  was  a 
soldier  as  thoroughly  desperate  as  Quantrell  in  some  respects, 
but  his  men  were  not  equal  to  Quantreli's  men.  Terrell  under- 
stood well  the  value  of  dash,  of  rush,  of  quick  fighting,  of  a 
blow  that  carried  with  it  the  power  of  its  own  perpetuation.  That 
is  to  say,  he  knew  how — when  he  once  got  thoroughly  warmed  up 
to  his  work — to  keep  at  it  until  something  yielded  or  somebody 
got  badly  hurt.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Quantrell  he  dashed  at  him 
as  a  greyhound  at  a  hare.  Quantrell  had  just  escaped  a 
formidable  antagonist  after  a  bloody  grapple.  Substract  from 
his  original  thirty-seven  men  the  five  who  had  been  killed,  the 
eight  who  had  been  wounded  and  captured,  and  the  eight  who 
had  been  wounded  and  not  captured,  and  Quantrell  was 
scarcely  in  a  condition  to  fight  Terrell's  sixty  fresh  Guerrillas 
effectively.  He  did  fight  them,  however,  those  who  were  wound- 
ed holding*  the  rear  in  turn  equally  with  those  who  were  not 
wounded.  The  fight  lasted  for  five  miles  along  the  Bloomfield 
turnpike.  William  Hulse,  John  Barnhill,  Frank  James,  John 
Ross,  John  Graham,  John  McCorkle,  Payne  Jones,  Allen 
Farmer,  Foss  Ney,  Clark  Hockensmith,  Peyton  Long  and  James 
Younger  doing  two  hours  battle  work  so  splendid  and  so  superb 
that  Terrell  himself  spoke  of  them  afterwards  as  devils  and  not 
men.  Try  how  he  would,  the  Federal  commander  could  never 
break  up  Quantreli's  rear.  In  eveiy  rush  he  got  the  worst  of 
the  melee.  His  men  could  not  shoot  like  Quantreli's  men, 
neither  could  they  ride  so  surely.  There  was  a  fierce  conflict 
at  the  point  where  Quantrell  left  the  turnpike  and  took  a  road 
leading  to  Taylorsville,  in  Spencer  county,  and  once  thereafter 
on  the  Taylorsville  road  proper;  but  TeiTell  was  worsted  so 


410  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

badly  in  the  first  encounter,  and  cut  up  so  seriously  in  the 
second  that  he  abandoned  the  pursuit  and  returned  with  his 
wounded  and  his  dead  to  Chaplain. 

Resting  a  day  and  a  night  at  the  hospitable  house  of  a  well- 
to-do  farmer  living  near  Taylorsville,  who  loved  the  South, 
Quantrell  threw  off  all  Federal  disguise  and  boldly  declared 
his  name,  his  principles,  and  his  intentions.  He  sought  to  find 
Sue  Mundy,  a  Kentucky  Guerrilla  of  Confederate  proclivities, 
who  had  already  done  much  valuable  spy  work  and  delivered 
many  swift  and  telling  blows.  Mundy  was  away  at  the  time  on 
an  extended  scout,  but  a  comrade  of  his — Captain  Marion — in 
no  way  inferior  as  a  fighter  or  less  enterprising  as  a  partisan, 
met  Quantrell  at  an  interview  arranged  by  the  host  of  the  hospi- 
table mansion,  part  Guerrilla  himself  and  part  non-combatant. 
The  meeting  took  place  in  Taylorsville.  Naturally  distrustful, 
and  made  extremely  cautious  because  of  the  imminence  of 
the  danger  that  daily  confronted  him — Marion  talked  at  first 
with  his  eyes  rather  than  with  his  lips,  and  listened  with  his 
right  hand  upon  his  revolver.  He  neither  denied  nor  affirmed 
that  Quantrell  was  QuantrelL  Man  for  man  he  was  not  of 
course  afraid  to  meet  him  in  a  friendly  way,  discuss  events  with 
him,  plan  with  him  expeditions,  compare  with  him  notes,  and 
lay  schemes  with  him  to  entrap  and  inveigle  a  common  enemy ; 
but  when  it  came  about  that  he  had  to  march  side  by  side  with 
these  scarred,  bronzed  Missourians,  who  might  be  Missourians 
and  who  might  not,  Captain  Marion's  yes  sounded  mightily 
like  an  unmistakable  no. 

Finally,  however,  Marion  agreed  to  this :  Commanding  forty 
Guerrillas  of  his  own,  if  Quantrell  would  put  at  his  disposal  all 
the  serviceable  Missourians  who  were  willing  for  Work,  he 
would  inaugurate  a  raid  at  once  and  march  immediately 
towards  its  accomplishment.  But  as  an  absolute  guarantee  of 
good  faith  it  would  be  necessary  for  Captain  Quantrell  to  report 
temporarily  to  Captain  Marion.  Quantrell  felt  annoyed  at  the 
suspicions  of  his  Kentucky  comrade,  and  vexed  that  he  should 
be  required  to  separate  himself  even  temporarily  from  his  con- 
stantly decreasing  band,  but  the  surroundings  of  the  situation 
required  something  of  a  sacrifice.  He  was  hunted  everywhere 
by  his  enemies,  and  suspected  everywhere  by  those  who,  if 
they  had  known  all,  would  have  been  his  steadfast  friends.  In 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         411 

order  to  place  himself  as  speedily  as  possible  en  rapport  with 
the  Confederate  Guerrillas  of  Kentucky,  and  be  enabled  to 
utilize  at  once  the  valuable  services  of  their  spies,  guides, 
couriers,  hiding-places,  and  horse  purveyors,  he  had  to  convince 
Marion  of  his  own  identity  and  put  himself  also  in  his  power  as 
a  kind  of  hostage  for  the  good  behavior  of  his  men.  Quantrell 
chose  to  do  deliberately  what  he  was  required  to  do,  and  Marion 
moved  with  the  Missourians  for  Georgetown.  Quantrell  remain- 
ed behind,  after  first  explaining  to  his  men  the  necessity  of  the 
separation,  and  the  need  of  faithfulness  on  their  part  and  the 
exercise  of  the  old  bravery  as  well. 

Marion  caused  a  strong  guard  to  be  stationed  about  the  Mis- 
sourians the  first  night,  and  one  not  so  strong  the  second  night. 
By  the  fifth  night  he  had  become  so  thoroughly  convinced  of 
their  principles  that  he  put  them  on  watch  over  the  Kentuckians, 
while  early  in  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day  out — after  having 
charged,  routed,  and  killed  to  a  man  a  Federal  scout  of  eleven 
cavalry — Marion  opened  his  heart  to  his  suspected  allieis  and 
praised  them  loudly  for  their  fidelity  and  courage. 

The  crossing  of  the  Kentucky  river  at  Worthville  was  not 
without  its  episode.  A  portion  of  Marion's  men  were  well  over, 
a  portion  in  mid-stream,  and  a  portion  still  upon  the  nearer  shore 
when  an  alarm  was  given  and  a  volley  fired.  Marion  had  crossed, 
and  the  bulk  of  the  Kentuckians,  but  the  attack  came  from  the 
rear  and  its  full  brunt  had  to  be  borne  by  the  Missourians. 
Frank  James  sprang  first  to  his  horse  and  charged  back  upon  the 
enemy.  Hulse  followed  him,  then  Ross,  Barnhill,  Ney,  McMur- 
try,  Venable,  the  two  Halls,  Porter,  Long,  Younger,  Wigginton, 
Graham,  McCorkle,  Farmer,  Bud  and  Donnie  Pence,  Jones, 
Lilly,  Hockensmith,  Bashara,  Harris,  Helton,  and  several  Ken- 
tucky Guerrillas  as  brave  as  the  best  of  them.  Outnumbered, 
the  Guerrillas  yet  fought  a  fight  that  could  not  be  resisted.  The 
enemy  was  driven  a  mile  and  more  at  a  headlong  pace,  his  dead 
dotting  the  road  in  ghastly  spots  where  when  living  they  had 
gallantly  formed  and  gallantly  stood  to  keep  the  Guerrillas  back. 
It  was  in  this  combat  that  Frank  James  killed  a  Federal  with 
the  butt  of  his  heavy  dragoon  revolver.  So  relentless  had  been 
the  race  and  so  fierce  the  fighting  that  every  barrel  of  his  six 
pistols  had  been  discharged.  Ahead  of  him  was  a  stalwart  rider 
whose  revolver  was  also  empty.  James  called  upon  him  to  halt 


412  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,   OR 

and  surrender  himself.  The  Federal  turned  sideways  in  his 
saddle,  looked  back  once  as  if  in  superlative  derision,  and 
shouted:  "Shoot,  and  be  d — d  to  you!"  James  could  not 
shoot,  but  he  sent  his  horse  ahead  furiously  by  a  spur  stroke, 
lifted  himself  up  sheer  in  the  stirrups,  grasped  his  heaviest 
dragoon  revolver  by  the  barrel  and  struck  once  and  struck  hard 
as  he  ranged  alongside  the  galloping  enemy.  The  skull  crashed 
as  a  hazel-nut.  A  sound  came  from  the  blow  like  the  sound  of 
wood  upon  wood — dull,  yielding,  deadened — and  all  of  a  heap 
and  prone  under  his  horse's  feet,  the  stricken  Federal  pitched 
forward,  a  writhing  and  contorting  figure  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  Hulse  seized  and  appropriated  his  horse,  a  most  service- 
able animal,  and  the  pursuit  ended  with  this  ferocious  episode. 
Well  over  the  Kentucky  river  and  well  beyond  and  unmo- 
lested, Marion  pushed  boldly  and  rapidly  on  towards  George- 
town. The  enemy  had  gained  the  town  ahead  of  him,  however, 
and  were  in  full  possession  of  the  place  when  the  Guerrillas 
reached  to  within  an  hour's  march.  Marion — possessed  of  con- 
siderable enterprise  and  no  small  amount  of  stubborn  courage — 
refused  to  fall  back  without  a  fight.  It  might  be  feasible  to 
assume  a  Federal  role  and  take  under  the  guise  of  comradeship 
an  immense  advantage  of  the  garrison.  Once  well  among  them 
and  secure  from  attack  for  the  first  few  moments  of  entrance, 
Marion  believed  that  he  could  either  kill  or  capture  the  entire 
command.  As  the  Missourians  alone  wore  the  United  States 
uniform,  he  sent  these  ahead  to  reconnoitre  the  position  and 
ascertain  if  the  ruse  proposed  to  be  practiced  was  practicable. 
Peyton  Long  carried  a  Federal  flag  in  the  front  file,  having 
Frank  James  on  his  left.  Behind  these  two  came  Hulse, 
Basham,  Barnhill,  Graham,  Helton,  the  two  Halls,  Hockensmith, 
Jones,  Ney,  Lilly,  and  McCorkle.  Behind  these — and  as  blue 
in  their  great  cavalry  overcoats  as  a  bar  of  indigo — there  rode 
as  a  reserve,  McMurtry,  Farmer,  Porter,  the  brothers  Pence, 
Ross,  Venable,  Harris,  Wigginton,  and  Younger.  Long  boldly 
approached  the  picquets  with  his  flag  and  was  not  even  halted. 
The  others  rode  up  and  rode  through  these  covering  cavalrymen 
unchallenged.  So  far  the  scheme  advised  by  Marion  was  work- 
ing admirably.  It  might  be  possible  to  win  with  it  along  the 
entire  line.  In  any  event  the  next  twenty  minutes  were  big 
with  the  fate  of  the  whole  adventure. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         415 

Eighteen  miles  from  Georgetown,  Marion  had  halted  the 
night  before  with  his  Guerrillas  and  occupied  the  house  of  a 
Union  citizen.  The  Missourians — quartered  to  themselves  in 
the  barn — were  quiet,  taciturn  and  discreet.  They  did  not 
talk  of  military  men  or  things.  They  looked  like  Federals, 
they  acted  like  Federals,  they  neither  denied  nor  affirmed  that 
they  were  Federals :  were  they  Federals  ?  Their  host  said  that 
they  were,  but  their  host  had  a  pretty  daughter  who  peered  with  all 
the  eyes  she  had  and  listened  with  all  the  ears  she  had  for  further 
information  pro  or  con.  Not  so  circumspect  as  Quantreli's  old 
men,  nor  so  watchful  of  little  things,  Marion  had  a  soldier  of 
his  own  at  the  supper  table  to  disclose  the  secret  of  the  expe- 
dition with  a  sentence.  Desultory  conversation  had  been 
generally  indulged  in.  The  Guerrilla  Captain  desired  nothing 
but  agreeable  things  to  be  left  in  his  rear,  and  so  had  made 
himself  especially  communicative  to  the  host,  and  especially 
agreeable  to  his  hostess  and  her  charming  daughter.  His  men 
also  had  been  firmly  admonished  to  keep  upon  their  good 
behavior.  Matters  were  moving  smoothly  along,  and  an  assur- 
ing social  footing  had  just  been  reached,  when  supper  was 
announced.  During  the  meal,  one  of  Marion's  Kentucky  fol- 
lowers spoke  quietly  but  significantly  to  another:  "How  we  will 
fool  them  to-morrow  if  we  find  them  in  Georgetown."  In  a 
second  he  had  caught  himself  and  was  striving  to1  recover  what 
he  had  lost  by  changing  the  conversation.  Too  late  !  Neither 
the  man  nor  the  woman  of  the  house  looked  up  or  gave  by  any 
sign  heed  to  the  talk  of  the  babbler;  but  the  daughter 
heard  the  words  of  exultation,  divined  their  meaning  with  all  a 
woman's  swift  intuition  and  flushed  scarlet  to  her  hair.  Marion 
frowned,  bit  his  lips  and  tried  to  annihilate  with  his  eyes  the 
garrulous  offender.  That  night,  when  all  the  soldiers  slept,  and 
when  the  frost  and  the  north  wind  were  abroad  in -the  midnight 
together,  the  young  girl  crept  from  her  bed  to  the  stable, 
saddled  a  swift  horse  for  herself,  and  rode  as  only  country  girls 
know  how  to  ride  full  tilt  into  Georgetown.  The  mistake  the 
imprudent  Guerrilla  made,  even  though  his  words  had  been 
taken  at  their  real  meaning,  might  easily  have  been  provided 
against  if  Marion's  caution  had  in  any  manner  approximated  bis 
audacity.  Four  guards  advantageously  posted  would  have 
made  impossible  the  Union  girl's  night  ride,  and  a  watchful 


414  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

sentinel  about  the  house  might  even  have  prevented  the  attempt. 
As  it  was,  she  carried  to  the  Federals  stationed  near  to  George- 
town the  news  of  Marion's  approach  and  the  probable  nature  of 
the  stratagem  he  would  attempt  to  play.  The  Federals  early 
the  next  morning  occupied  the  place  in  force,  posted  their 
picquets  with  orders  to  admit  the  Guerrilla  column  without 
question,  and  then  prepared  themselves  thoroughly,  by. fortifica- 
tion and  ambushment,  to  destroy  it. 

It  was  well  for  Marion  and  well  for  his  men  that  the  Missou- 
rians  rode  that  day  in  front  of  the  column.  As  the  leading  files 
advanced  half  through  the  town  and  were  nearing  the  larger 
and  heavier  buildings  about  the  public  square,  Peyton  Long, 
the  standard  bearer,  stopped.  Marion,  some  few  paces  in 
advance  of  Frank  James,  turned  to  know  the  reason.  "It 
does  not  become  me,  aptain,"  James  spoke  up,  "to  either 
advise  with  you  or  suggest  to  you  unless  I  am  so  requested,  but 
I  must  tell  you  respectfully  that  we  do  not  like  the  looks  of 
things.  There  are  no  soldiers  upon  the  streets;  the  picquets 
did  not  halt  us ;  Georgetown  is  as  quiet  as  a  graveyard ;  there 
is  treachery  somewhere ;  if  we  go  further  without  developing 
the  situation,  we  shall  be  surrounded  and  savagely  attacked. 
Ten  skirmishers  thrown  well  forward  now  may  save  thirty  lives 
further  on.  Evidently  we  are  expected,  but  not  as  friends  are 
expected.  Look  yonder,  Captain!" 

Four  men,  running  in  a  stooping  position  with  their  guns  in 
their  hands,  were  seen  making  much  haste  from  one  house  to 
another.  Marion  saw  them  and  understood  in  a  moment  the  whole 
situation.  In  five  minutes  more  the  skirmishers  had  developed 
the  enemy  and  there  was  a  terrible  fire  going  on  from  the 
doors  and  the  windows  of  the  buildings  upon  the  Guerrillas  in  the 
street.  Frank  James'  horse  was  killed,  and  Hulse,  Bud  Pence, 
James  Younger  and  John  Boss  were  slightly  wounded.  Nothing 
remained  but  a  countermarch.  Increased  by  accessions  here 
and  there  on  the  trip,  Marion's  command  numbered  probably 
seventy,  the  Federals  one  hundred  and  eighty-two.  As  many 
as  one  hundred  and  eighty-two  in  addition  should  be  counted 
for  the  houses.  Indeed,  to  fight  at  all  with  Marion  would  have 
been  madness.  There  was  still  time  to  get  away  from  the  trap 
whose  jaws  in  springing  had  grazed  with  their  teeth  the  bulk  of 
the  column,  but  the  need  was  to  make  haste.  Larger  bodies  of 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  415 

the  enemy  were  hastening  up  from  two  directions,  and  the 
country  now  must  certainly  be  aroused.  Frank  James'  watch- 
fulness had  stood  all  in  good  stead  so  far,  but  superior  watch- 
fulness could  not  always  avail  against  superior  numbers. 
Marion  retreated  rapidly,  first  gathering  up  the  picquets  who 
had  deliberately  sacrificed  themselves  for  the  success  of  the 
ambushment  inspired  by  a  woman.  From  these  he  learned  of 
the  young  girl's  mission,  and  the  motive,  other  than  patriotism, 
which  inspired  her.  Beloved  by  a  young  Lieutenant  stationed 
near  to  Georgetown,  and  betrothed  to  him,  she  had  more  than 
once  carried  to  his  Colonel  information  of  military  movements 
hostile  or  suspicious.  Suspecting  Marion  from  the  first,  and 
more  than  usually  curious  and  vigilant,  she  had  divined  at  last 
the  true  character  of  the  Guerrillas  and  the  true  intention  of 
their  mission. 

Frank  James,  afoot,  would  not  leave  Georgetown  without  a 
horse.  Under  the  point  blank  range  of  the  guns  of  one  of  the 
largest  houses  in  the  place  there  was  a  livery  stable  filled  with 
splendid  cavalry  animals.  For  this  he  made  a  rush,  a  revolver 
in  each  hand,  killed  two  guards  by  the  door  who  disputed  his 
passage,  mounted  the  finest  horse  feeding  there — a  magnificent 
gray,  pure  blooded  as  Lexington — and  dashed  back  to  his 
comrades,  leading  four  others  in  no  way  inferior  to  his  own 
valuable  capture.  The  Federals  fired  at  him  furiously  without 
effect,  and  then  they  ceased  firing  and  chased  him  heartily  as 
long  as  he  was  in  sight. 

Marion  made  haste  through  Owen  county,  after  his  repulse  at 
Georgetown,  and  into  Woodford  county,  where  he  swooped 
down  upon  the  famous  stock  farm  of  Colonel  R.  A.  Alexander. 
Alexander  was  an  importer  and  breeder  known  to  the  country. 
The  blood  in  the  veins  of  his  horses  was  royal  blood.  King 
Lexington  had  by  almost  immortal  speed  established  a  dynasty 
and  begotten  a  long  line  of  imperial  racers.  Federals  and  Con- 
federates alike  had  spared  him,  but  the  Guerrillas  were  inexora- 
ble and  took  from  his  stables  thoroughbred  horses  to  the  number 
of  nineteen,  and  valued  in  the  aggregate  at  $100,000.  Alex- 
ander offered  $10,000  for  the  release  of  a  favorite  stallion,  Bald 
Chief,  but  Marion  refused  the  offer  and  marched  away  with  the 
property. 

Re-crossing  the  Kentucky  river  near  Lawrenceburg,  and  halt- 


416  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OR 

ing  beyond  a  few  miles  for  breakfast,  Frank  James  suddenly 
leaped  from  his  seat  upon  the  table,  and  from  the  table  to  the 
door,  shouting:  "Yonder  they  come!  To  the  stable,  quick!  to 
the  stable,  boys,  for  your  horses  and  your  lives!" 

There  was  a  rush  and  a  volley.  All  the  road  was  blue  with 
overcoats.  James  led,  behind  him  came  Hulse,  behind  Hulse, 
Donnie  Pence,  and  behind  Pence,  Clark  Hockensmith.  Marion 
formed  the  balance  of  the  company  behind  fences  and  out- 
buildings. The  first  four,  James,  Hulse,  Pence  and  Hocken- 
smith, tarried  not  a  moment  until  they  reached  the  stable,  fifty 
yards  from  the  dwelling.  A  few  of  the  enemy  were  already 
there  and  shot  through  the  cracks  at  the  Guerrillas  as  they 
bridled  and  saddled  their  horses.  The}T  fired  back,  even  while 
busy  with  buckle  and  strap,  and  killed  three  of  the  boldest 
forcing  the  fighting  from  the  outside.  All  about  it  was  touch 
and  go.  Of  the  eight  horses  feeding  in  the  stable,  the  four 
Guerrillas  got  safely  out  with  only  the  four  they  rode.  Bald 
Chief  was  killed  in  the  rae/ee,  and  two  others  of  Alexander's 
most  valuable  thoroughbreds  disabled  permanently  by  wounds. 
Marion  extricated  himself  finally  from  the  heavy  force  which 
threatened  him,  and  rode  away,  fighting  fiercely  for  several 
miles.  Eight  of  his  men  were  wounded,  seven  of  whom  were 
brought  off  by  their  more  fortunate  comrades,  leaving  the  eighth 
man,  Thomas  Henry,  too  hard  hit  to  ride.  Henry  was  a  Ken- 
tuckian,  young,  dauntless,  and  utterly  fearless  in  combat.  He 
had -helped  hold  the  rear  against  desperate  odds  for  two  long 
miles,  fighting  foot  by  foot  and  hand  to  hand.  Many  remarked 
his  prowess.  Frank  James  especially  complimented  him  and 
spoke  to  him  banteringly :  "You  ought  to  be  a  Missourian — you 
fight  like  a  Jackson  county  man."  Finally  Henry  fell,  shot 
sheer  through  the  right  breast,  and  the  Federal  wave  swept  over 
and  beyond  him.  As  it  returned  from  a  pursuit  which  for  their 
numbers  had  been  singularly  barren  and  unprofitable,  a  savage 
trooper  dashed  up  to  the  wounded,  hero  still  lying  there,  bleed- 
ing and  helpless,  and  shot  him  twice  fall  in  the  face.  So  close 
each  time  was  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  that  powder  was 
blown  into  the  skin,  and  the  eye-lashes  and  eye-brows  burned 
completely  off.  The  first  ball  entered  his  mouth  and  passed  out 
on  the  left  side  of  his  neck,  while  the  second — entering  the 
right  cheek  an  inch  below  the  eye — made  its  exit  near  to  and 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         417 

below  the  base  of  the  right  ear.  Finished  apparently,  and 
bloody,  disfigured,  and  still,*  the  soldier  who  shot  him  rifled  his 
pockets,  disposed  of  his  boots,  and  rode  away  boasting  that 
there  was  "one  d — d  bushwhacker  less  in  the  world."  But  in 
spite  of  his  three  desperate  wounds,  Henry  lived  on.  When  he 
awoke  to  consciousness  he  crawled,  half  frozen,  through  the 
bitter  February  weather  to  the  house  of  a  Southern  man,  three 
miles  away.  There  he  found  food,  succor,  shelter,  a  nurse,  a 
doctor,  and  a  courier  who  went  for  Marion.  Marion  was  a  man 
who  never  feared  an  enemy  or  forgot  a  friend.  As  none  in 
battle  were  braver  or  more  reckless,  so  none  in  its  lapse  or  lull  were 
more  faithful  to  the  hurt  or  gentle  with  the  crippled.  Twenty 
times  over  had  he  risked  his  own  life  to  save  what  little  life  yet 
remained  to  some  grievously  wounded  yet  gallant  follower.  He 
turned  about  at  once  as  soon  as  word  was  brought  to  him  of 
Henry's  condition,  and  watched  over  him  day  and  night  until  he 
could  be  carried  to  a  place  of  safety.  He  survived  the  war,  and 
makes  in  peace  an  upright,  stalwart  citizen,  without  fear  and 
without  reproach.  His  scars  are  his  decorations,  and  for  fewer 
many  major-generals  have  been  made. 

Captain  Marion,  without  further  adventure  or  serious  com- 
bat, delivered  again  into  Quantrell's  keeping  that  portion  of 
Quantrell's  command  which  had  followed  him  so  far  and  fol- 
lowed him  so  well.  He  thanked  him  briefly  for  their  services, 
and  summed  up  briefly  the  praise  all  felt  was  but  a  portion  of 
what  was  due  to  them :  "Braver  men,"  he  said,  "I  never  saw 
in  battle,  truer  men  never  fired  a  gun  since  the  war  began." 

Marion  and  Quantrell  parted  for  awhile  now,  but  temporarily. 
Before  the  separation,  however,  he  prevailed  upon  Marion  to  re- 
store to  Alexander  the  remaining  sixteen  blooded  horses  still  in 
his  possession.  Marion  readily  consenting,  delivered  the 
horses  over  to  Quautrell,  and  Quantrell  in  turn  delivered  them 
over  to  their  owner.  As  an  appreciation  of  this  disinterested 
act,  and  as  a  real  token  of  gratitude  to  the  two  men  who  were  the 
most  instrumental  in  this  transfer,  Alexander  presented  Quan- 
trell with  a  magnificent  thoroughbred,  and  Frank  James  with 
another,  known  everywhere  by  his  name  of  Edwin  Forrest,  and 
noted  everywhere  for  his  speed  and  for  the  prowess  of  his  rider. 

The  Missouri  Guerrillas  needed  rest.     They  had  ridden  and 
fought,  with  scarcely  a  day  of  real  quiet,  from  Jackson  county, 
27  • 


418  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  Oft 

Missouri,  to  Nelson  county,  Kentucky — through  Arkansas, 
Tennessee,  and  Kentucky — and  it  was  time  for  a  little  re- 
laxation. The  February  weather,  even  in  the  latitude  in 
which  they  were,  was  bitter  cold,  and  the  State  in  every  di- 
rection was  overrun  with  Federal  regiments.  Quantrell,  there- 
fore, resorted  once  more  to  his  old  tactics  of  Missouri  and  dis- 
banded his  Guerrilla  following  until  further  orders.  Some  went 
to  one  portion  of  Nelson  county  and  some  to  another.  Among 
the  mountains  in  the  west,  and  at  the  truly  hospitable  mansions 
of  the  Thomases,  Russells,  and  McClaskeys,  about  Bloomfield, 
the  battle-scarred  and  war-worn  Guerrillas  found  a  hearty  wel- 
come. One  detachment,  consisting  of  Lee  McMurtry,  Bud 
Pence,  Frank  James,  Doimie  Pence,  Payne  Jones,  William 
Hulse  and  John  Ross,  made  homes  with  Mrs.  Samuels  and  Mrs. 
Finetta  E.  Sayers.  These  families  were  especially  kind  to  the 
Missouri  Guerrillas.  Food,  shelter,  information,  skillful  medical 
attendance,  fresh  horses — everything  in  fact  was  furnished  to 
them  ungrudgingly  when  thsy  were  either  sick,  hard  pressed, 
wounded,  ahungered,  or  afoot.  Mrs.  Samuels  was  truly  a  South- 
ern mother  in  Israel.  Mrs.  Sayers  feared  nothing — neither  pro- 
scription, arrest,  military  punishment,  the  confiscation  of  prop- 
ert}r,  nor  the  imprisonment  of  her  people.  Another  famous 
rendezvous,  their  few  brief  resting  days  knew,  was  at  the  house 
of  Dock  Hoskins — Old  Dock  as  the  Guerrillas  called  him.  He 
lived  in  a  prominent  and  comfortable  dwelling  on  the  top  of  a 
hill.  For  many  miles  round  about  this  mansion  might  have 
been  remarked.  Cedar  woods  surrounded  it.  A  shout  of  warn- 
ing, a  cry,  a  galloping  horse,  a  single  pistol  shot,  and  no  matter 
what  the  number  of  the  attacking  force,  ten  steps  in  a  retreat 
hid  the  Guerrillas  and  as  effectually  protected  them  from  pursuit 
as  a  ship  in  a  harbor  is  protected  from  a  storm.  Once  only 
during  the  war  did  an  enemy  beat  up  these  commodious  quar- 
ters. Bud  Pence  and  Henry  Turner,  scouting  well  up  in  the 
direction  of  Samuels'  Depot,  were  attacked  by  Lieut.  Hancock, 
commanding  a  detachment  of  the  47th  Kentucky,  and  driven 
rapidly  towards  Dock  Hoskins'  house.  Pence  fought  them 
step  by  step.  Turner  was  shot  through  the  right  shoulder,  and 
Pence  in  the  right  arm,  but  they  escaped  among  the  cedars  and 
Hancock  halted  awhile  at  Hoskins'. 

Thus  Mrs.  Samuels,  Mrs.  Sayers,  Dock  Hoskins,  the  Russells, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  419 

and  the  McClaskeys  ministered  to  the  Missourians.  What  hurts 
there  were  among  them  were  speedily  healed.  These  who 
needed  clothing  were  bountifully  supplied.  Bad  horses  had 
been  traded  away  for  good  ones.  Small  supplies  of  ammunition 
were  increased  to  large  ones.  Carbines  were  looked  to,  pistols 
cleaned,  the  men  grew  restless,  and  the  signs  visibly  increased 
of  stormy  movements,  to  be  stormily  made.  It  was  March 
now,  and  something  of  the  Spring  was  felt  in  the  air,  seen  on  the 
trees,  heard  in  the  streams,  and  made  known  by  the  springing 
grasses.  The  nights,  less  cheerless  and  full  of  frost,  were 
getting  fit  again  for  bivouacs.  In  the  maple  trees  some  sap  was 
rising,  and  from  the  South  a  soft  wind  was  beginning  to  blow. 
Those  who  at  the  fight  in  Jessamine  county  had  been  wounded 
and  captured  —  Ves  Acres,  Dick  Glasscock,  McGuire,  Burnes, 
Gaugh,  Evans,  Roberson,  and  Williams — had  been  carried  to 
Louisville  and  imprisoned  there.  Helped  from  the  outside,  and 
finding  numerous  friends  throughout  the  city,  these  desperate 
Guerrillas  sawed  asunder  the  iron  bars  of  their  dungeons,  dug 
and  burrowed  as  veritable  badgers,  crawled  through  holes  a  fer- 
ret could  scarcely  have  found  feasible,  and  reached  daylight  and 
liberty  both  at  once,  wounded  as  some  of  them  were  and  emaci- 
ated. Further  safety  required  immediate  separation.  Acres 
escaped  in  one  direction,  Williams  in  another,  Burnes  and 
McGuire  in  a  third,  Gaugh  in  a  fourth,  Evans  and  Roberson  in  a 
fifth,  Glasscock  alone  of  all  the  fugitives  reached  Quantrell  in 
safety  and  Roberson  alone  of  all  of  them  was  recaptured.  Taken 
at  Lexington  and  transferred  again  to  Louisville,  he  was  tried 
by  a  drum-head  court-martial  and  sentenced  to  be  hung.  The 
charge  upon  which  he  was  convicted  was  a  charge  shamefully 
false.  Infuriated  at  the  escape  of  men  so  notoriously  desperate 
as  were  these  Guerrillas  of  Quantrell,  the  Federal  authorities  at 
Louisville  needed  a  victim.  George  Roberson  was  found.  Any 
evidence  was  sufficient  for  conviction.  No  evidence  at  all  would 
have  answered  just  as  well.  He  was  accused  of  having  killed 
the  Federal  officer  in  Hustonville  who  attempted  at  the  livery 
stable  to  prevent  the  appropriation  of  the  horses  of  his  men. 
Allen  Farmer  killed  that  officer,  as  all  the  command  knew. 
Farmer  and  Roberson  had  no  single  feature  alike.  In  nothing 
did  they  resemble  each  other — neither  in  eyes,  hair,  form,  gait, 
speech,  or  general  appearance.  Mistaken  identity  was  a  plea 


420  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,   OR 

too  preposterous  to  be  put  up.  Those  who  swore  away  his  life 
were  simply  murderers  after  another  fashion.  Instead  of  cutting 
his  throat  while  asleep,  or  shooting  him  unawares,  or  crushing 
his  skull  with  a  blow  from  behind,  they  hung  him  with  a  lie. 
Even  the  wolfs  courage  was  wanting  to  them;  it  was  the 
weasel  which  they  assimilated.  Few  friends  were  about  the  scaf- 
fold when  the  young  Missourian — intrepid  as  though  it  was  a 
battle-day — was  brought  forth  to  die.  These  friends  dared  not 
speak  to  him,  much  less  to  bid  him  be  cool  and  brave.  He  had 
asked  permission  to  be  shot  as  a  soldier,  but  murders  for  revenge 
have  no  appreciation  of  chivalry,  and  this  being  a  precious  boon 
to  him  was  of  course  denied.  Bound  as  he  was,  he  walked  like 
La  Tour  de  Auvergne  at  the  head  of  his  Grenadiers.  The 
drums  beat,  there  was  the  tread  of  marching  men — cavalry  and 
infantry — and  the  rabble  called  to  one  another  and  laughed  as 
the  procession  wound  its  way  slowly  along  from  the  prison  to 
the  scaffold.  Brave  men  in  the  ranks  of  the  cordon  about  him 
spoke  soldierly  words  afterwards  of  his  quiet  grace  and  daunt- 
lessness.  He  was  but  a  wild  beast,  many  said  and  no  doubt 
honestly  believed  —  for  the  name  Guerrilla  was  synonymous 
then  with  extermination — but  the  wild  beast  died  like  a  demi- 
god. He  looked  once  at  the  houses,  the  people,  the  white 
clouds  far  to  the  west,  the  sea  of  faces  upturned  and  all  about 
him,  and  then  to  the  bright  sun  shining  over  all.  Yes, 

"  He  walked  out  from  the  prison  wall, 
Dressed  like  a  prince  for  a  parade, 
And  made  no  note  of  man  or  maid, 
But  gazed  out  calmly  over  all; 
Then  look'd  afar,  half  paused,  and  then 
Above  the  mottled  sea  of  men 
He  kiss'd  his  thin  hand  to  the  sun; 
Then  smiled  so  proudly  none  had  known 
But  he  was  stepping  to  a  throne." 

A  few  friends  begged  the  body  from  the  hangman  and  buried 
it  away  be}^ond  the  reach  of  the  resurrectionist.  None  the  less 
had  he  died  for  his  country  in  dying  upon  the  scaffold.  The 
principle  for  which  the  hero  dies,  and  not  the  mode  of  dying, 
makes  the  consecration.  If  patriotism  has  anywhere  beyond 
the  river  an  abode  where  the  spirits  of  the  dead  who  died  for 
the  right  are  gathered  together  and  re-endowed  with  form  and 
substance,  be  sure  the  angel  keeping  watch  and  ward  by  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  421 

golden  gates  will  never  know  anything  of  difference  between  the 
scar  the  rope  made  and  the  scar  of  the  bullet  in  open  battle. 

Dr.  McClaskey  gave  to  the  Guerrillas  a  re-union  feast. 
Magruder,  a  Kentuckian  somewhat  of  the  fashion  of  George 
Todd,  came  to  it.  He  was  a  bold,  cool,  untiring,  venturesome 
man,  used  to  hard  knocks  and  difficult  to  kill.  When  he  fought 
he  fought  to  exterminate.  Those  who  followed  him  had  also  to 
follow  a  black  flag.  His  frame,  gigantic  as  it  was,  sat  upon  a 
horse  as  a  rider  might  who  was  riding  for  a  crown.  If  he  got 
four  hours  of  sleep  he  got  enough.  The  Federals  called  him  a 
butcher ;  his  own  men  Rough  and  Ready.  Sue  Mundy  came  to 
it,  a  quiet,  gentle,  soft-spoken  dandy,  with  his  hair  in  love-knots 
six  inches  long,  a  hand  like  a  school-girl,  and  a  waist  like  a 
woman.  Sometimes  he  dressed  also  as  a  woman,  hence  the 
soubriquet  of  Sue.  As  a  spy  he  came  and  went  as  a  wind  that 
blew.  So  many  were  his  shapes  and  disguises,  so  perfectly 
under  control  were  his  speech  and  bearing,  that  in  some  quarters 
his  identity  was  denied,  in  others  his  sex  was  a  matter  of  doubt, 
in  all,  those  who  did  not  fear  him  had  an  improbable  idea  both 
of  the  man's  prowess  and  personal  appearance.  Mundy  was  a 
cool,  brave,  taciturn,  experienced  soldier,  well  acquainted  with 
the  country  where  he  operated  and  utterly  fearless.  In  addition, 
he  was  also  a  thorough  fatalist.  His  smooth,  open,  rosy-cheeked 
face  made  almost  any  disguise  easy  of  encompassment.  His 
iron  nerve  carried  him  easily  through  many  self-imposed  diffi- 
culties that  without  it  extrication  could  not  have  come  through 
a  regiment  of  cavalry.  When  he  fought  he  fought  savagely. 
Beneath  an  exterior  as  effeminate  as  a  woman  of  fashion  he 
carried  the  muscles  of  an  athlete  and  the  energ3r  of  a  racer. 
His  long  hair  in  battle  blew  about  as  the  mane  of  a  horse.  The 
dandy  in  a  melee  became  a  Cossack ;  in  desperate  emergencies 
a  giant.  Mundy,  Marion  and  Magruder  were  a  Kentucky  trio 
famous  as  fighters  and  fit  to  be  relied  upon  equally  with  the 
best  of  any  Guerrilla  band,  Quantrell's  not  excepted. 

To  this  feast  also  came  Quantrell,  a  deeper  light  in  his  clear 
blue  eyes,  and  a  graver  cast  on  his  grave,  cold  features.  The 
few  who  were  left  to  him  of  all  his  desperate  following  and  who 
remarked  their  chief  at  this  last  reunion  this  side  eternity, 
remarked  as  they  had  never  done  before,  how  tall  and  straight  he 
was,  how  fair  if  not  to  say  florid  his  complexion  was,  how  much 


422  NOTED  GUEKEILLAS,  OX 

darker  his  hair  had  become,  how  broad  his  shoulders  were,  and 
how  if  anything  his  nose  had  become  longer  and  more  aquiline. 
All  who  had  ever  studied  him  knew  from  the  first  that  his  appli- 
cation was  indefatigable,  his  temper  cool,  his  understanding  vig- 
orous and  decisive,  and  that  in  his  practice  he  preserved  that 
rare  and  salutary  moderation  in  the  government  of  intractable 
men  which  pursued  his  own  ideas  at  an  equal  distance  from  the 
opposing  ideas  of  those  who  were  the  most  ambitious  among  his 
band,  and  invariably  enforced  them  without  seeming  to  control. 
He  had  come  now  again  and  for  the  last  time  to  propose  a  raid. 

There  was  mirth  at  Dr.  McClaskey's,  and  music,  and  feast- 
ing, and  dancing,  and  many  tender  words  spoken  at  parting — 
for  Southern  girls  had  gathered  in  from  all  the  country  round 
about — but  good-byes  were  said  at  last  and  the  Guerrillas  rode 
away.  The  road  they  took  ran  towards  Lebanon.  At  sunset  a 
bivouac  was  had,  still  a  little  crisp  and  chilly  in  the  night  air, 
and  a  rousing  fire  made.  In  the  morning  an  advance  was 
formed,  Magruder,  Bud  Pence,  John  Ross,  William  Hulse  and 
Frank  James  comprising  it.  Quantrell  and  Mundy  marched 
with  the  reserve.  Entered  well  upon  the  turnpike  leading  from 
Lebanon  to  Campbellsville,  Hulse  and  James  discovered  a 
wagon  train  making  its  way  up  from  Lebanon,  convoyed  by  a 
detachment  of  Federal  soldiers,  four  of  whom  were  in  front  of 
it.  Magruder  first  sent  Hulse  back  to  notify  Quantrell  of  the 
near  proximity  of  the  enemy,  and  then  moved  boldly  forward. 
For  awhile  the  Federal  advance  guard  looked  upon  Quantrell' 8 
advance  guard  as  friends,  as  their  uniform  was  like  their  own, 
and  permitted  them  to  approach  within  a  few  feet  unchallenged. 
At  the  order  to  surrender,  the  Federals  attempted  to  draw  their 
pistols,  when  three  of  them  were  shot  down  instantly,  the 
fourth  one  turning  to  run,  followed  by  Frank  James  at  a  furious 
pace  to  within  half  a  mile  of  the  fort  at  Lebanon.  Almost  safe 
and  nearly  within  reach  of  shelter  and  succor,  Frank  James 
shot  him  running  fifty  yards  away,  putting  a  bullet  in  the  back 
of  his  head.  The  train,  composed  of  twenty  wagons,  wa& 
burnt,  and  its  escort — numbering  thirty-eight  cavalrymen — was 
totally  destroyed,  twenty-seven  being  killed,  ten  wounded,  and 
one  taken  alive  and  unhurt. 

At  a  toll-gate  two  miles  west  from  Bradfordsville,  QuantrelPs 
rear   was  heavily  attacked.     Sue  Mundy  held   it    and   turned 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  423 

upon  the  head  of  the  pursuing  column  with  an  energy  so  sudden 
and  savage  that  he  staggered  it  until  it  reeled,  when  rushing 
down  at  the  charge  and  clearing  everything  down  before  him  as 
of  old  in  his  murderous  onset,  Quantrell  checked  the  pursuit 
for  the  day,  after  killing  and  wounding  seventy-six  of  the 
enemy.  In  the  first  moments  of  this  fight,  however,  and  before 
Quantrell  had  quite  reached  to  the  rescue  of  his  Kentucky 
comrade  holding  the  rear,  Mundy  was  down  under  his  dead 
horse,  held  as  though  a  log  were  upon  his  body.  Fifty  Federals 
were  hacking  at  him  with  swords  and  firing  at  him  with 
revolvers.  His  own  men  nearest  to  him  and  available  for 
immediate  help  were  Magruder,  William  Hulse,  George  Wiggin- 
ton,  John  Barnhill,  Frank  James,  John  Ross,  Farmer,  Porter, 
Venable  and  James  Younger.  These  charged  en  masse  upon 
Mundy's  assailants,  fought  off  those  immediately  bent  upon 
killing  him  as  he  lay  prostrate  there,  and  held  them  off  until 
Quantrell  finished  the  combat  by  a  pistol  fight  remarkable  for 
its  rapidity  and  execution.  The  next  day  Capt.  Fidler  was 
encountered  commanding  sixty  men,  each  man  leading  an 
excellent  cavalry  horse.  Fidler  did  not  fight,  and  perhaps  it 
was  no  part  of  his  programme  to  fight.  He  sacrificed  forty- 
five  of  his  best  horses,  seven  of  his  men,  and  escaped  with  the 
balance. 

QuantrelPs  old  antagonist,  Colonel  Bridgewater,  lived  on 
Rolling  Fork,  in  Marion  county,  and  he  would  beat  up  his  quar- 
ters and  pounce  upon  him  if  possible.  Reaching  Bridge  water's 
house  about  ten  o'clock  at  night,  Quantrell  surrounded  it  at 
once,  but  soon  satisfied  himself  that  the  Colonel  was  not  at  home. 
He  then  marched  to  the  neighborhood  of  Hustonville  and  was 
attacked  twelve  miles  from  this  place  by  an  entire  regiment  of 
cavalry.  Here  Foss  Ney  was  killed,  one  of  his  old  men,  as  brave 
as  any  of  the  band,  and  Jo  Lisbon.  Fighting  superbly  in  the 
rear,  James  Younger  was  badly  wounded  and  captured,  together 
with  William  Merriman,  who  rushed  up  in  the  face  of  two  hun- 
dred Federals  to  rescue  his  comrade  and  bring  him  out. 
Younger,  when  his  horse  was  killed  and  his  comrades  had  been 
driven  back  far  beyond  his  ability  ttf'reach  them  on  foot,  stood 
up  in  front  of  the  whole  Federal  line  which  had  been  firing  at 
long  range  and  fired  every  barrel  of  his  six  revolvers.  Probably 
five  hundred  Federals  fired  at  him  specially.  Shot  in  the  right 


424  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

shoulder,  he  used  his  pistols  with  his  left  hand,  and  when  he  fell 
the  enemy  were  within  a  dozen  yards  of  him,  and  he  had  been 
again  shot  badly  in  the  right  breast.  While  closing  in  upon 
him,  many  in  the  advancing  line  cried  out  to  him  to  surrender. 
He  answered  neither  yes  nor  no,  but  he  continued  to  shoot. 
"When  Merriman  reached  him,  he  was  too  badly  hurt  to  mount 
up  behind,  even  though  Merriman's  horse  in  that  fire  could  have 
lived  a  moment.  A  second  later,  Merriman's  own  horse  was 
killed,  and  shot  twice  and  badly  hurt,  Merriman  himself  was 
lying  a  few  feet  from  James  Younger,  incapable  of  resistance. 
The  Federals  were  particularly  kind  to  these  two  prisoners, 
Guerrillas  though  they  were,  and  extended  to  them  many 
friendly  acts  and  favors  because  of  a  bravery  never  surpassed. 

Quantrell  extricated  himself  from  the  desperate  pursuit  with 
difficulty.  He  formed  and  fought,  and  fought  and  formed,  but 
outnumbered  as  he  was  nearly  ten  to  one,  he  scarcely  made  an 
impression  upon  the  bold  horsemen  who  constantly  came  on. 
Payne  Jones  was  afoot,  Allen  Farmer  was  afoot,  James  Lilly 
was  afoot,  Lee  McMurtry  was  afoot,  Frank  James  was  afoot, 
John  Barnhill's  horse  was  standing  up  barely  under  his  wounds, 
Ike  Hall  was  wounded,  Venable  was  wounded,  Clark  Hocken- 
smith  was  wounded,  and  others  of  his  men  had  been  more  or 
less  severely  handled.  Quantrell  passed  the  word  hurriedly 
along  his  own  ranks  to  the  effect  that  with  the  men  not  yet  disa- 
bled he  would  charge  once  more  furiously,  but  that  during  the 
charge  those  who  were  dismounted  must  leave  the  road,  as 
whether  successful  or  unsuccessful,  he  would  order  a  disband- 
ment.  The  charge  was  made  furiously,  and  it  swept  away  the 
head  of  the  Federal  column  as  a  strong  stream  sweeps  away  a 
mass  of  driftwood.  There  was  a  halt,  a  lull  in  the  storm  of  the 
pursuit,  a  sudden  change  of  the  combat  from  a  column  of  rough- 
riding  cavahymen  into  a  line  of  cautious  skirmishers,  and  in  the 
interval  of  time  thus  gained  by  one  audacious  counter-move- 
ment, the  dismounted  men  escaped  and  the  wounded  men  were 
carried  off  by  their  comrades. 

As  of  old  the  second  rendezvous  was  in  Nelson  county.  Lee 
had  surrendered.  Everywhere  the  Confederate  armies  were 
falling  to  pieces.  Neither  the  Southern  soldiers  nor  civilians 
knew  anything  of  the  intentions  of  the  Confederate  authorities. 
Even  in  the  air  there  were  evidences  of  gloom  and  disaster. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  425 

Discipline  was  gone.  The  masses  were  not  in  favor  of  making 
a  Guerrilla  war  succeed  to  that  of  the  war  of  a  regular  govern- 
ment. Kentucky,  like  Missouri,  had  furnished  more  soldiers  to 
the  Northern  than  to  the  Southern  armies,  and  was  willing 
to  make  peace  almost  before  there  had  been  a  commencement  of 
hostilities.  While  Lee  stood  everything  stood — erect,  hopeful, 
defiant.  When  Lee  fell,  the  fabric  which  four  years  of  heroic 
fighting  had  erected  and  the  blood  of  half  a  million  of  men  had 
been  poured  out  to  make  its  foundations  immutable,  fell  with 
him  and  with  a  great  crash.  African  Slavery  was  buried  at 
Appomattox  court  house,  and— let  us  take  care  that  American 
Liberty  was  not  buried  there  as  well. 

The  last  week  in  April,  1865,  Quantrell,  having  with  him  only 
John  Ross,  Payne  Jones,  William  Hulse  and  Frank,  James, 
started  to  Winchester,  in  Clark  county,  but  before  he  reached 
it  the  town  was  occupied  by  the  enemy.  Every  day  for  a  week 
there  was  a  fight.  In  single  combat  with  a  Federal  cavalryman, 
Quantrell  killed  his  man  nearly  a  hundred  yards.  At  the  head 
of  his  squad  he  encountered  late  one  afternoon  a  superior  body 
of  the  enemy  and  advanced  alone  to  inspect  them  further.  A 
single  Federal  rode  out  to  encounter  him,  and  halted  at  the  dis- 
tance of  fifty  yards.  Quantrell  called  to  him  to  come  closer, 
but  he  refused,  and  Quantrell  fired  and  missed  him.  The  Fed- 
eral returned  the  fire  with  his  carbine  and  missed,  and  then 
followed  it  up  with  three  additional  shots  from  his  revolver. 
The  range  evidently  being  too  great  for  his  skill,  he  turned 
quickly  and  was  galloping  back  to  his  comrades  when  Quantrell 
fired  his  second  shot  and  put  a  bullet  in  the  Federal's  neck  just 
at  the  base  of  the  skull.  Something  of  the  desperation  of  those 
combats  in  Missouri  when  it  was  darkest  along  the  border,  came 
now  to  the  winnowed  and  battered  few  who  still  rallied  about 
their  beloved  leader  and  obeyed  him  with  a  touching  devo- 
tion abnormal  in  that  time  of  falling  away  and  abandonment. 
John  Ross  and  Frank  James,  sent  to  a  house  to  procure  horses 
for  three  dismounted  comrades,  were  fired  upon  from  the  stable 
«ind  slightly  wounded.  They  burnt  the  stable  and  killed  the 
chree  soldiers  who  had  ambushed  them. 

Glasscock,  Ike  Hall  and  Venable  were  ordered  to  bring  pro- 
visions from  a  citizen's  house  to  Quantrell' s  camp  in  the  woods. 
Hall,  the  spokesman,  was  refused  everything.  A  fair  talking, 


426  NOTED  QUERRILLAS,  OK 

amiable,  upright  man,  he  pleaded  his  own  positive  orders  and 
the  peculiar  exigencies  of  the  situation.  No  use !  There  were 
five  Federal  militia  at  the  house,  and  no  three  Missourians  in 
arms  anywhere  could  take  from  five  Kentuckians  a  pound  of 
meat  or  a  baking  of  flour.  Short  work  and  very  sharp !  When 
the  smoke  lifted,  four  of  the  militia  were  dead,  and  the  fifth  so 
badly  wounded  that  he  begged  to  be  killed,  a  request  Venable 
was  in  more  than  half  a  humor  to  gratify. 

Later  on  Clark  Hockensmith,  John  Barnhill,  David  Helton, 
and  Thomas  Harris  were  surrounded  by  thirty  cavalrymen  while 
at  dinner.  As  Helton  lifted  a  cup  of  coffee  to  his  lips  he  hap- 
pened to  look  through  the  window  of  the  dining  room  and  saw 
the  head  of  the  Federal  column  almost  jutted  up  against  the 
house.  An  alarm  and  a  volley,  and  the  Guerrillas  fought  their 
way  desperately  to  their  horses  and  escaped,  after  killing  and 
wounding  five  of  the  pursuers,  Harris  receiving  a  severe  wound 
in  the  face. 

Quantrell  returned  at  last  to  Nelson  county,  much  worn  by  a 
week's  incessant  fighting,  and  more  badly  cut  up  and  crippled 
than  lie  had  ever  yet  been  in  men  and  horses  since  his  entrance 
into  Kentucky.  While  one  of  the  Missourians  lived,  however, 
he  might  surely  count  upon  a  following.  Man  by  man  they 
would  march  at  his  bidding  and  die  at  a  word. 

Mundy,  Marion,  and  Magruder,  within  a  few  days  after 
Quantrell's  arrival  in  Nelson  county,  passed  through  on  a  raid. 
Of  the  Missouri  Guerrillas  but  one— Peyton  Long — joined  them. 
Fighting  successfully  about  Owensboro,  in  Owen  county,  and 
holding  their  own  pretty  well  in  several  hot  fights  in  Breckin- 
ridge  county.  Marion  was  sent  with  twelve  men  into  Bewley- 
ville,  Meade  county.  Thirty  Federal  cavalry  attacked  him 
there  and  Marion  charged  them  fiercely.  Peyton  Long  led  this 
charge.  He  was  ahead  of  the  foremost  rider,  shooting  with  the 
terrible  effect  of  his  old  Missouri  training.  Four  of  the  enemy 
had  already  fallen,  shot  dead  from  their  saddles.  He  was  close 
upon  the  fifth  when  an  ambushed  body  of  Federals  variously  es- 
timated at  from  two  hundred  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  rose  sud- 
denly up  from  behind  fences  and  trees  and  poured  one  deadly 
volley  into  the  ranks  of  Marion's  little  band.  A  heavy  carbine 
ball  cut  Peyton  Long's  pistol  belt  between  the  U.  and  the  S.  and 
wounded  him  mortally  in  the  bowels.  Five  others  of  the  Guer- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  427 

rillas  were  killed  or  wounded.  Even  under  that  fire  Marion 
halted  long  enough  to  lend  a  hand  to  Long  and  steady  him  in 
the  saddle.  For  eight  miles — such  was  his  wonderful  nerve  and 
endurance — he  held  to  his  horse,  riding  upright  as  a  soldier  on 
duty.  Far  in  the  rear  Marion,  with  that  devotion  to  his  wounded 
which  made  him  conspicuous  among  the  Guerrillas,  fought  back 
the  pursuit  and  held  it  back  until  the  sun  set.  Then  he  halted 
long  enough  for  Peyton  Long  to  die.  A  comrade  holding  his 
head  in  his  lap,  suggested  that  to  mitigate  somewhat  the  pain 
his  belt  be  taken  off.  "No,"  said  the  suffering  man,  gently, 
"I  will  die  so.  Tell  my  comrades  that  while  life  was  left  my 
be.lt  was  buckled  about  me."  Once  he  lifted  himself  up  and 
looked  fair  at  the  west  where  the  sky  still  shone  with  the  dark- 
ening glories  of  the  sun.  His  lips  moved  but  he  did  not  pray. 
Perhaps  some  name,  sweeter  then  than  any  name  life  had  ever 
made  soft  for  him,  came  back  just  once  again  for  the  fashioning. 
Perhaps  he  saw  a  face  somewhere  in  the  gathering  twilight,  just 
a  little  pale  but  surely  not  reproachful.  No  matter :  when  the 
twilight  came  and  the  night  deepened  somewhere  out  in  the  in- 
finite and  the  unknown  a  spirit  wandered,  made  pure  before 
God  and  beautiful  because  of  an  intrepidity  no  man  has  ever  yet 
surpassed,  fight  how  he  might  for  king,  or  cause,  or  creed,  or 
country. 

Peyton  Long  was  a  soldier  before  Fort  Sumpter  fell.  He 
left  Liberty,  Clay  county,  Missouri,  in  May,  1861,  a  private  in 
Capt.  Tom  McCarty's  company,  of  John  T.  Hughes'  regiment. 
McCarty  was  a  Missouri  lawyer  who  should  have  been  a 
Crusader  or  a  mediaeval  knight.  He  abhorred  a  lie,  believed 
female  purity  a  thing  fit  to  be  worshiped,  scarcely  understood 
the  meaning  of  the  word  fear,  was  simple,  child-like,  confiding, 
a  lion  in  combat,  and  a  patriarch  in  his  camp  and  among  the 
soldiers  of  his  company.  McCarty  enlisted  Peyton  Long — took 
him,  indeed,  a  boy  and  left  upon  him  the  impress  of  a  hero.  In 
every  battle  fought  west  of  the  Mississippi  river  Long  partici- 
pated— Carthage,  Oak  Hills,  Dry  Wood,  Lexington,  Elk  Horn 
— and  when  General  Price  crossed  east  of  the  river  after  Shiloh, 
Long  crossed  with  him,  fighting  a  brave  man's  fight  at  luka 
and  Corinia.  In  the  summer  of  1863  he  became  a  Guerrilla. 
Quantreli  tfas  not  more  cool,  Todd  was  not  more  desperate, 
Haller  wait  not  more  dashing,  Anderson  was  not  more  reckless, 


428  NOTED  GUEEEILLAS,   OR 

Taylor  was  not  more  deadly,  none  of  them  were  more  persistent 
and  eternally  in  the  saddle  than  this  Missouri  infantryman, 
turned  bushwhacker.  At  Lawrence  his  intrepidity  was  conspic- 
uous ;  at  Centralia  he  was  one  of  four  who  followed  up  the 
remnant  of  Johnson's  exterminated  command  to  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  the  block-house  at  Sturgeon ;  everywhere  he 
was  face  to  face  with  danger,  noted  alike  for  coolness,  prowess, 
horsemanship,  and  desperation.  A  people  whose  cause  after 
having  been  appealed  to  the  sword  perishes  by  the  sword,  feel 
satisfied  perhaps  with  here  and  there  a  monument.  This  man, 
this  Confederate,  Guerrilla,  bushwhacker,  border  fighter,  black 
flag  follower,  this  hero,  whatever  else  he  may  be  called — de- 
serves one.  It  need  not  be  costly.  A  plain  stone,  barely  large 
enough  for  an  inscription,  is  all  the  patriotic  fitness  of  the  act 
requires — a  stone  whereon  this  might  be  written :  "Death  smote 
him  in  the  harness  and  he  fell  where  it  was  an  honor  to  die." 
On  the  llth  day  of  June,  1865,  Quantrell  started  from 
Bedford  Russell's,  in  Nelson  county,  with  John  Ross,  William 
Hulse,  Payne  Jones,  Clark  Hockensmith,  Isaac  Hall,  Richard 
Glasscock,  Robert  Hall,  Bud  Pence,  Allen  Parmer,  Dave 
Helton  and  Lee  McMurtry.  His  destination  was  Salt  river.  At 
Newel  McClaskey's  the  turnpike  was  gained  and  traveled 
several  miles,  when  a  singularly  severe  and  penetrating  rain 
storm  began.  Quantrell,  to  escape  this,  turned  from  the  road 
on  the  left  and  into  a  woods  pasture  near  a  post-office  called 
Smiley.  Through  this  pasture  and  for  half  a  mile  further  he 
rode  until  he  reached  the  residence  of  a  Mr.  Wakefield,  in 
whose  barn  the  Guerrillas  took  shelter.  Unsuspicious  of 
danger,  and  of  the  belief  that  the  nearest  enemy  was  at  least 
twenty  miles  away,  the  meu  dismounted,  unbridled  their  horses, 
and  fed  them  at  the  racks  ranged  about  the  shed  embracing  two 
sides  of  the  barn.  While  the  horses  were  eating  the  Guerrillas 
amused  themselves  with  a  sham  battle,  choosing  sides  and  using 
cobs  as  ammunition.  In  the  midst  of  much  hilarity  and  boist- 
erousiiess,  Glasscock's  keen  eyes  saw  through  the  blinding  rain  a 
column  of  Federal  cavalry,  one  hundred  and  twenty  strong, 
approaching  the  barn  at  a  trot.  He  cried  out  instantly,  and 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  at  Wakefield' s  house,  sixty  yards 
away:  "Here  they  are!  Here  they  are!"  Instantly  all  the 
men  were  in  motion  and  rushing  for  their  horses. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  429 

Capt.  Edward  Terrell,  known  well  to  Quantrell  and  fought 
stubbornly  once  before,  had  been  traveling  the  turnpike  from  the 
direction  of  Taylorsville,  as  completely  ignorant  of  Quantrell's 
proximity  as  Quantrell  had  been  ignorant  of  Terrell's,  and  would 
have  passed  on  undoubtedly  without  a  combat  if  the  trail  left 
by  the  Guerrillas  in  passing  from  the  road  to  the  pasture  had 
not  attracted  his  attention.  This  he  followed  to  within  sight  of 
the  barn,  understood  in  a  moment  the  character  of  the  men 
sheltered  there,  and  closed  upon  it  rapidly,  firing  as  he  came 
on.  Before  a  single  Guerrilla  had  put  a  bridle  upon  a  horse, 
Terrell  was  at  the  main  gate  of  the  lot,  distant  some  fifty  feet 
from  the  barn,  and  pouring  such  a  storm  of  carbine  bullets 
among  them  that  their  horses  ran  furiously  about  the  lot,  difficult 
to  approach  and  impossible  to  restrain.  Fighting  desperately 
and  deliberately,  and  driving  away  from  the  main  gate  a  dozen 
or  more  Federals  stationed  there,  John  Ross,  William  Hulse, 
Allen  Farmer,  Lee  McMurtry  and  Bud  Fence  cut  their  way 
through,  mounted  and  defiant.  The  entire  combat  did  not  last 
ten  minutes.  It  was  a  fight  in  which  every  man  had  to  do  for 
himself  and  do  what  was  done  speedily.  Once  above  the 
rattling  of  musketry,  the  neighing  of  horses  and  the  shouting  of 
combatants  Quantrell's  voice  rang  out  loud  and  high:  "Cut 
through,  boys ;  cut  through,  somehow.  Don't  surrender  while 
there  is  a  chance  to  get  out !"  The  fire  upon  the  Guerrillas  wa* 
furious.  Quantrell's  horse — a  thoroughbrecj,  animal  of  great 
spirit  and  speed,  could  not  be  caught.  His  master,  anxious  to 
secure  him,  followed  him  composedly  about  the  lot  for  several 
minutes,  trying  under  a  shower  of  balls  to  get  hands  upon  his 
favorite.  At  this  moment  Clark  Hockensmith,  who  was  mounted 
and  free  to  go  away  at  a  run,  saw  the  peril  of  his  chief  and 
galloped  to  his  rescue.  Quantrell,  touched  by  this  act  of  devo- 
tion, recognized  it  by  a  smile  and  held  out  his  hand  to  hi& 
comrade  without  speaking.  Hockensmith  dismounted  until 
Quantrell  took  his  own  place  in  the  saddle,  and  then  sprang  up 
behind  him.  Another  furious  volley  from  Terrell's  men  lining 
all  the  fence  about  the  great  gate,  killed  Hockensmith  and 
killed  the  horse  Hockensmith  and  Quantrell  were  upon.  The 
second  hero  now  gave  his  life  for  Quantrell.  Richard  Glass- 
cock  had  also  secured  his  own  horse  as  Hockensmith  had  done, 
and  was  as  free  to  ride  away  in  safety  as  he  had  been.  Opposite 


430  NOTED  G-UEERILLAS,  OB 

to  the  main  entranc^  of  the  barn  lot  there  was  an  exit  uncov- 
ered by  the  enemy,  and  beyond  this  exit  a  stretch  of  heavy 
timber.  Those  who  gained  this  timber  were  safe.  Hocken- 
smith  knew  it  when  he  faced  about  and  deliberately  laid  down 
his  life  for  his  chief,  and  Glasscock  knew  it  when  he  also  turned 
about  and  hurried  up  to  the  two  men  struggling  there — Quan- 
trell  to  drag  himself  cut  from  under  the  body  of  the  horse,  and 
Hockensmith  in  the  agonies  of  death.  The  second  volley  from 
the  gate  mortally  wounded  Quantrell  and  killed  Glasscock' s 
horse.  Then  a  charge  of  fifty  shouting  and  shooting  men 
swept  over  the  barn  lot.  Robert  Hall,  Payne  Jones,  David 
Helton  and  Isaac  Hall  had  gone  out  some  time  before  on  foot. 
J.  B.  Tooley,  A.  B.  Southworth  and  C.  H.  Southworth,  wounded 
badly,  escaped,  fighting.  Only  the  dead  man  tying  by  his 
wounded  chief,  and  the  dauntless  Glasscock — erect,  splendid 
and  fighting  to  the  last — remained  as  trophies  of  the  desperate 
combat.  Two  balls  had  struck  Quantrell.  The  first,  the  heavy 
ball  of  a  Spencer  carbine — entered  close  to  the  right  collar 
bone,  ranged  down  along  the  spine,  injuring  it  severely,  and  hid 
itself  somewhere  in  the  body.  The  second  ball  cut  off  the  finger 
next  to  the  little  finger  of  the  left  hand,  tearing  it  from  its 
socket  and  lacerating  the  hand  itself  painfully.  The  shoulder 
wound  did  its  work,  however,  for  it  was  the  mortal  wound.  All 
the  lower  portion  of  Quantrell's  body  was  paralyzed,  and  as  he 
was  lifted  and  carried  to  Wakefield's  house  his  legs  were  limp 
and  his  extremities  cold  and  totally  without  sensation.  At  no 
time  did  he  either  complain  or  make  moan.  His  wonderful 
fortitude  and  endurance  remained  unimpaired  to  the  end.  His 
mind,  always  clearest  in  danger,  seemed  to  recognize  that  his 
last  battle  had  been  fought  and  his  last  encounter  finished.  He 
talked  very  little.  Terrell  came  to  him  and  asked  if  there  was 
any  good  service  he  might  do  that  would  be  acceptable. 
41  Yes,"  said  Quantrell,  quietly,  "have  Clark  Hockensmith 
buried  like  a  soldier."  After  he  had  been  carried  to  the  house 
of  Wakefield  "and  deposited  upon  a  pallet,  he  spoke  once  more 
to  Terrell:  "While  I  live  let  me  stay  here.  It  is  useless  to 
haul  a  dying  man  about  in  a  wagon,  jolting  out  what  little  life 
is  left  in  him."  Terrell  pledged  his  word  that  he  should  not  be 
removed,  and  rode  away  in  pursuit  of  those  who  had  escaped. 
Meanwhile  a  tragedy  was  being  enacted  which  was  a  fitting 


THE  WAR  FAME  OF  THE  BOB  DEE         431 

sequel  to  the  war  work  of  the  great  Missouri  Guerrilla.  Rich- 
ard Glasscock  had  seen  Quantrell  trying  in  vain  to  catch  his  own 
horse,  had  seen  Hockensmith  spur  to  his  help,  had  seen  the  two 
mount  together  and  essay  to  escape,  had  seen  them  go  down 
under  a  fearful  volley  all  of  a  heap,  had  seen  Quantrell  struggle 
up  from  the  wreck  unhurt,  and  he,  too — free  to  dash  away  in 
safety  as  Hockensmith  had  been — rushed  like  Hockensmith  to 
Quantrell' s  assistance.  It  was  then  the  second  volley  was  fired 
which  struck  Quantrell  to  the  earth  and  killed  Glasscock's  horse. 
Even  then,  untouched  as  he  was,  he  might  have  still  escaped'. 
He  did  not  even  try.  He  stood  over  his  wounded  chief  and 
emptied  the  remaining  barrels  of  the  last  revolver  left  loaded, 
killing  two  of  Terrell's  men  almost  upon  him  and  wounding  three. 
Fifty  infuriated  Federals  fired  then  full  upon  Glasscock.  He 
alone  of  all  the  band  stood  erect  and  defiant.  His  life  appeared 
to  be  charmed.  Not  a  bullet  drew  blood.  One  cut  his  shirt, 
another  his  hat,  two  his  pantaloons,  the  fifth  a  heavy  lock  of 
hair,  but  the  skin  nowhere  was  broken.  He  was  stooping  to 
take  a  pistol  from  Quantrell' s  belt,  which  still  contained  a  few 
loads,  when  a  furious  Federal  charge  rushed  over  him  and  beat 
him  down.  When  he  arose  he  had  been  stamped  upon,  beaten 
about  the  head  and  shoulders  with  the  butts  of  pistols,  and  dis- 
armed. No,  not  disarmed !  Desperate  Guerrilla  as  he  was  and 
had  been,  a  singular  superstition  clung  to  him  tenaciously 
through  all  his  war  life.  He  had  believed  that  at  some  one  time 
in  his  career  he  would  be  a  prisoner  and  that  maybe  to  run  out 
from  his  environment  or  cut  out,  he  would  be  compelled  to  sur- 
render himself  and  take  the  chances  afterward  of  escape.  So 
firmly  had  this  idea  become  fixed  in  his  mind  that  he  bought  a 
Derringer  pistol  at  the  earliest  opportunity  and  kept  it  con- 
stantly concealed  about  his  person.  This  he  inspected  fre- 
quently and  knew  from  such  inspection  that  it  was  fit  to  stake 
his  life  upon.  Those  who  beat  him  down  and  disarmed  him, 
took  only  his  revolvers,  six  huge  dragoons  that  had  done  for 
four  terrible  years  ceaseless  and  unsparing  work.  Perhaps  it  was 
thought  unnecessary  to  search  him  for  any  other  weapon,  and 
he  was  not  searched.  Guarded  by  a  single  cavalryman  and  per- 
mitted to  ride  at  the  rear  of  the  Federal  column  unconfined,  he 
waited  calmly  until  as  tretch  of  heavy  timber  was  reached,  and 
until  the  column  upon  its  march  had  widened  the  distance 


432  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OH 

between  the  files  perceptibly.  Of  a  sudden  then  and  with  a 
movement  as  certain  and  swift  as  long  and  sure  practice  could 
make  it,  Glasscock  drew  from  his  bosom  the  cocked  Derringer 
and  snapped  it  full  in  the  face  of  the  Federal  trooper.  The  keen 
bursting  of  the  cap  alone  awoke  the  echoes  and  revealed  to  the 
guard  the  imminence  of  the  danger  averted  by  a  hair's  breadth. 
Wetted  by  the  morning's  soaking  rain  and  false  in  the  only 
moment  possible  for  execution,  the  Derringer,  with  a  dauntless 
life  staked  upon  it,  did  not  win.  The  whole  theory  of  the  Guer- 
rilla's four  years'  hoarding  and  inspecting  disappeared  in  the 
explosion  of  a  pistol  cap.  He  cursed  his  luck  with  a  savage 
curse,  short  and  gutteral,  stood  upright  a  second  in  his  stirrups 
and  struck  the  guard  by  his  side  a  terrible  blow  over  the  head 
with  the  useless  weapon.  Stalwart  and  huge,  it  did  not  even 
knock  him  from  his  saddle.  Now  began  the  grapple  of  the  tiger 
with  the  elephant.  The  Federal  shortened  his  carbine  and 
sought  to  shoot  Glasscock  as  he  sat.  Glasscock  seized  the 
muzzle  of  the  gun  and  hurled  it  aside  just  as  it  was  discharged. 
Both  men  leaped  upon  the  ground  and  grappled  one  another 
almost  under  the  feet  of  their  horses.  Glasscock  was  doomed. 
An  old  wound  in  the  left  shoulder,  not  yet  entirely  healed,  and 
an  old  wound  in  the  right  leg,  still  discharging  pieces  of  bone 
and  clothing,  made  him  a  child  in  the  grasp  of  a  giant.  His 
antagonist — six  feet  in  height  and  powerful  in  proportion — 
clasped  him  in  an  embrace  that  was  crushing  like  a  bear's  and 
sinewy  like  an  anaconda's.  The  crippled  Guerrilla,  however — 
all  the  old  Berserkyr  blood  in  his  veins  on  fire — fought  until 
they  killed  him.  The  strange  combat  in  the  rear  had  caused 
the  bulk  of  the  column  to  turn  back.  Twenty  cavalrymen,  with 
carbines  cocked,  gathered  about  the  desperate  wrestlers  waiting 
to  shoot  the  Guerrilla  the  moment  he  stood  clear  and  free  from 
the  body  of  their  comrade.  Meanwhile  Glasscock  had  managed 
to  get  from  his  pocket  and  unclasp  a  small  knife,  scant  two 
inches  being  the  length  of  its  longest  blade.  With  this  he  made 
battle  until  he  died.  So  deadly  was  the  hug  of  the  Federal, 
however,  and  so  tense  was  the  vise-like  grip  of  his  arms,  that 
Glasscock  could  use  his  last  weapon  only  partially.  Once  he 
thrust  the  point  of  the  knife  blade  a  quarter  of  an  inch  in  his 
back,  once  he  cut  him  across  the  chin,  several  times  he  slashed 
him  slightly  about  the  body,  but  he  was  too  weak  to  break  loose 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  433 

from  the  iron  arms  of  the  Federal  and  too  close  to  him  to  kill 
him.  Suddenly  a  quick-eyed  soldier  put  a  carbine  to  Glass- 
cock's  hips  and  shot  him  through.  So  close  was  the  muzzle  of 
the  gun  that  the  powder  set  his  shirt  on  fire.  As  he  fell,  or 
rather  as  he  settled  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Federal  who  was 
grappling  with  him,  and  who  felt  a  limp,  yielding  body  slipping 
from  his  hold,  Glasscock  laughed  a  savage  laugh  and  strove  in 
dying  to  drive  the  steel  home  to  his  heart.  Too  weak  even  to 
cut  through  the  clothing,  he  kept  fast*  hold  upon  the  knife  and 
held  it  fast  under  the  bullets  of  at  least  twenty  soldiers  who 
fired  into  the  body  long  after  it  was  stiff  and  cold. 

These  two  men  who  died  for  Quantrell  were,  with  the  lights 
before  them,  Guerrilla  Bayards.  Either  was  free  to  go — neithei 
went.  Each  was  commanded  by  Quantrell  to  leave  him — neithei 
obeyed.  It  is  probable  both  believed  that  they  could  not  save 
him,  yet  steadfast  in  the  equanimity  of  accepted  death,  they 
both  died  striving  to  serve  their  chief.  Clark  Hockensmith, 
even  in  his  boyhood,  had  been  singularly  devoted  in  his  friend- 
ships and  unfaltering  in  the  discharge  of  what  he  considered  hig 
duty.  At  school,  if  those  he  loved  had  to  be  punished,  he 
shared  such  punishment  with  them.  If  trouble  came  to  any 
companion — magnified  by  boyish  fears  and  aggravated  by  boy- 
ish fancies  —  he  stood  undismayed  by  his  side.  It  there  was 
danger,  the  youth  became  a  man — so  cool  he  was,  so  steadfast, 
and  so  calm.  As  he  grew  up  he  grew  braver  and  gentler.  All 
who  knew  him  loved  him.  Patient,  generous,  frank,  guileless, 
accommodating — with  those  of  his  own  age  he  was  popular  and 
trusted,  and  with  those  who  were  older  and  more  sedate,  he  was 
the  ideal  of  manly  courtesy  and  ingenuous  deference.  When 
the  war  came  he  joined  the  Guerrillas.  The  desperate  nature 
of  their  warfare  awoke  in  his  nature  an  emotion  that  responded 
quickly  to  every  phase  of  their  fighting.  Noted  among  cool 
men  for  coolness,  among  daring  men  for  superlative  daring, 
among  devoted  men  for  pre-eminent  devotion,  among  unsparing 
men  for  winning  sweetness  of  disposition  and  patience  of 
behavior,  he  never  killed  a  foe  save  in  open  battle  or  shot  at  an 
enemy  except  the  enemy  were  shooting  at  him.  In  one  of 
Poole's  fights  close  to  Wellington,  in  which  Poole  was  worsted, 
a  gallant  Guerrilla  defending  the  rear  was  wounded  and  left 
afoot.  The  pursuit  was  merciless,  the  murder  of  the  wounded 
28 


434  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

man  absolute.  Who  would  go  back  to  save  him?  Clark  Hocken- 
smith  of  course.  He  did  go  back,  but  the  venture  was  well 
nigh  hopeless.  Entrenched  behind  his  dead  horse,  the  crippled 
Guerrilla  had  made  his  peace  with  God  and  was  ready  to  get 
for  his  life  the  best  price  the  Federals  might  be  willing  to  pay 
for  it.  Fifty  of  them  were  close  to  him,  firing  and  advancing. 
In  the  face  of  these,  and  in  spite  of  a  fire  that  would  have 
beaten  back  and  demoralized  a  less  intrepid  soldier,  Hocken- 
smith helped  his  hurt  comrade  up  upon  his  own  horse  and  brought 
him  to  a  place  of  safety  with  such  a  gentle  resolution  that  it 
seemed  simple  because  it  was  so  perfectly  undemonstrative. 
And  as  he  did  at  Wellington,  so  did  he  do  twice  afterwards. 
The  fourth  time  was  his  last  time.  As  he  rode  up  to  rescue 
him,  Quantrell  bade  him  go  back.  Hockensmith  did  not  reply 
save  to  dismount  under  a  fire  that  was  hotter  and  more  concen- 
trated than  any  he  had  ever  endured  before,  as  many  as  he  had 
faced,  and  helped  his  chief  into  his  own  saddle.  Quantrell 
needed  help.  Two  days  before  his  horse  had  kicked  him  on  the 
left  knee  and  injured  the  joint  seriously.  It  gave  him  great 
pain  to  hobble  even  over  a  perfectly  level  surface,  but  to  use 
the  leg  in  mounting  and  dismounting  without  assistance  was 
agony  of  the  intensest  sort.  The  volley  that  killed  Hocken- 
smith would  certainly  have  killed  Quantrell  also,  but  the  faithful 
comrade,  considerate  even  in  death,  had  mounted  behind  his 
chief  and  built  up  thus  with  his  own  body  a  barricade  that  only 
failed  to  furnish  shelter  when  it  neither  knew  nor  felt  any  more 
the  world's  human  heroism  and  devotion. 

Richard  Glasscock,  though  coming  by  a  road  different  from 
the  one  traveled  by  Hockensmith,  reached  the  same  goal.  He 
was  devoted  through  sheer  excess  of  physical  courage.  If  he 
cared  well  enough  for  any  one  to  fight  at  all  for  him,  he  cared 
well  enough  to  die  at  his  back.  He  had  stood  over  wounded 
comrades  as  often  as  Hockensmith,  and  had  as  often  in  the 
snpremest  fury  of  a  combat  torn  from  the  hands  of  the  victo- 
rious foe  some  crippled  Guerrilla,  too  hard  hit  to  fly  afoot,  and 
too  far  in  the  rear  to  overtake  his  routed  friends.  Noted  also 
for  dash  and  intrepidity,  Glasscock — while  wanting  the  higher 
emotion  of  devoted  friendship  in  his  attempted  rescue  of  Quan- 
trell — had  in  lieu  of  it  that  which  would  carry  him  just  as  far—- 
the reckless  ambition  to  save  the  coollest  and  fiercest  fighter 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER        435 

known  to  border  warfare.  He  cared  nothing  for  his  life,  because 
he  had  never  taken  a  moment's  thought  of  it.  He  cared 
nothing  for  the  danger  to  be  dared,  because  he  probably  did  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word.  Hockensmith  died  through  the 
excess  of  devotion ;  Glasscock  through  the  excess  of  personal 
courage.  Hockensmith  for  his  faith  would  have  been  burnt  at 
the  stake ;  Glasscock  for  his  faith  would  have  died  as  Harold 
died,  sword  in  hand  and  heroic,  on  the  battle-field  of  Hastings. 

John  Ross,  Allen  Farmer,  William  Hulse,  Lee  McMurtry  and 
Bud  Pence  escaped,  pursued  fiercely,  but  turned  at  intervals 
and  fought  the  Federals  back  so  savagely  that  it  was  not  long 
before  they  were  permitted  to  continue  their  retreat  unmolested. 
All  of  these  men  would  have  died  with  Quantrell  if  Quantrell's 
own  order  had  not  been  of  the  suave  qui  pent  armament. 
4kTake  care  of  yourselves,  everbody!"  he  had  shouted  several 
times  to  the  Guerrillas  fighting  in  groups  and  squads  about  the 
barn  lot,  and  as  these  men  supposed  that  everybody  naturally 
would  endeavor  to  save  himself,  Quantrell  equally  with  the  bal- 
ance, they  fought  out  together  and  escaped. 

Robert  Hall  had  his  horse  killed,  as  did  Isaac  Hall,  Payne 
Jones,  and  David  Helton.  Afoot  and  folio  wed,  they  turned  once 
beyond  the  exit  gate  and  made  a  desperate  rally,  driving  back 
the  pursuers  and  gaining  some  brief  breathing  time.  A  separa- 
tion next  followed,  Payne  Jones  going  in  one  direction,  Robert 
Hall  in  another,  while  Isaac  Hall  and  David  Helton  kept 
together.  These  two,  both  wounded,  took  refuge  in  a  pond  four 
hundred  yards  from  Wakefield's  house.  Gathering  together 
sticks  and  bunches  of  grass  they  made  of  them  a  sort  of  screen 
for  their  heads  which,  from  the  nose  up,  was  all  that  remained 
above  the  water.  Hunted  everywhere,  they  crouched  for  an 
hour  thus,  chilled  to  the  marrow  but  undiscovered.  Leaving 
the  pond  and  hurrying  as  fast  as  possible  to  a  wheat  field,  they 
were  again  seen,  fired  at,  and  followed.  In  the  midst  of  the 
growing  grain  they  concealed  themselves  for  the  second  time, 
pulling  up  great  quantities  of  wheat  and  covering  their  bodies 
with  it  completely.  After  nightfall  they  emerged  once  more 
from  their  hiding-place  and  escaped  before  morning  entirely  out 
of  the  neighborhood. 

Some  of  the  fugitive  Guerrillas  soon  reached  the  well  known 
rendezvous  at  the  house  of  Alexander  Sayers,  twenty-three 


436  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OB 

miles  from  Wakefield's,  with  tidings  of  the  fight.  Frank  James 
heard  all  the  story  through  with  a  set  face,  strangely  white  and 
sorrowful,, and  then  he  arose  and  cried  out:  ''Volunteers  to  go- 
back!  Who  will  follow  me  to  see  our  chief,  living  or  dead?" 
"I  will  go  back,"  said  Allen  Farmer,"  "and  I,"  said  John 
Ross,  "and  I,"  said  William  Hulse.  "Let  us  ride,  then,"  re- 
joined James,  and  in  twenty  minutes  more — John  Ross  having 
exchanged  his  jaded  horse  for  a  fresh  one — these  four  devoted 
men  were  galloping  away  to  Wakefield's.  At  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  they  were  there.  Frank  James  dismounted  and 
knocked  low  upon  the  door.  There  was  the  trailing  of  a  wom- 
an's garment,  the  circumspect  tread  of  a  watching  woman's 
feet,  the  noiseless  work  of  a  woman's  hand  upon  the  latch,  and 
Mrs.  Wakefield — cool  and  courtly — bade  the  strange,  armed 
men  upon  the  threshhold  enter.  Just  across  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room  from  the  door  a  man  lay  on  a  trundle-bed, 
watchful  but  very  quiet.  James  stood  over  the  bed,  but 
could  not  speak.  If  one  had  cared  to  look  into  his  eyes  they 
might  have  been  seen  full  of  tears.  Quantrell,  by  the  dim  light 
of  a  single  candle,  recognized  James,  smiled,  held  out  his  hand, 
and  said  to  him  very  gently,  though  a  little  reproachfully:  "Why 
did  you  come  back?  The  enemy  are  thick  about  here ;  they  are 
passing  every  hour."  "To  see  if  you  were  alive  or  dead,  Cap- 
tain. If  the  first,  to  save  you ;  if  the  last  to  put  you  in  a 
grave."  "I  thank  you  very  much,  Frank,  but  why  try  to  take 
me  away?  I  am  cold  belo^  the  hips.  I  can  neither  walk,  ride, 
nor  crawl.  I  am  dead  and  yet  I  am  alive."  Frank  James 
went  to  the  door  and  called  in  Farmer,  Ross,  and  Hulse. 
Quantrell  recognized  them  all  in  his  old,  calm,  quiet  fashion, 
and  bade  them  wipe  away  their  tears,  for  they  were  crying  visi- 
bly. Then  Frank  James — joined  in  his  entreaties  by 
the  entreaties  of  his  comrades,  pleaded  with  Quan- 
trell for  permission  to  carry  him  to  the  mountains 
of  Nelson  county  by  slow  and  easy  stages,  each  swear- 
ing to  guard  him  hour  by  hour  until  he  recovered  or-  die 
over  his  body,  defending  it  to  the  last.  He  knew  that  every 
pledge  made  by  them  would  be  kept  to  the  death.  He  felt  that 
every  word  spoken  was  a  golden  word,  and  meant  absolute  de- 
votion. His  faith  in  their  affection  was  as  steadfast  and  abid- 
ing as  of  old.  He  listened  till  they  had  done,  with  the  old  staid 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  437 

courtesy  of  victorious  Guerrilla  days,  and  then  he  silenced 
them  with  an  answer  which  from  its  resoluteness  they  knew  to 
be  unalterable.  "I  cannot  live.  I  have  run  a  long  time;  I 
have  come  out  unhurt  from  many  desperate  places ;  I  have 
fought  to  kill  and  I  have  killed ;  I  regret  nothing.  The  end  is 
close  at  hand.  I  am  resting  easy  here,  and  will  die  so.  You 
do  not  know  how  your  devotion  has  touched  my  heart,  nor  can 
you  ever  understand  how  grateful  I  am  for  the  love  you  have 
shown  for  me.  Try  to  get  back  to  your  homes,  and  avoid  if 
you  can  the  perils  which  beset  you/' 

Until  10  o'clock  the  next  day  these  men  remained  with  Quan- 
trell.  He  talked  to  them  very  freely  of  the  past,  but  never  of 
his  earlier  life  in  Kansas.  Many  messages  were  sent  to  absent 
friends,  and  much  good  advice  was  given  touching  the  surrender 
of  the  remnant  of  the  band.  Again  and  again  he  returned  to 
the  subject  of  their  earlier  struggles  in  Missouri  and  dwelt  long 
over  the  recollections  and  the  reminiscences  of  the  two  first 
years  of  Guerrilla  warfare.  Finally  the  parting  came,  and  those 
who  looked  the  last  on  QuantrelPs  face  that  morning  as  they 
stooped  to  tell  him  goodbye,  looked  their  last  on  it  forever. 

Terrell  had  promised  Quantrell  positively  that  he  should  not 
be  removed  from  Wakefield's  house,  but  in  three  days  he  had 
either  broken  or  forgotten  this  pledge.  He  informed  Gen. 
Palmer,  commanding  the  department  of  Kentucky,  of  the  fact 
of  the  fight,  and  of  the  desperate  character  of  the  wounded 
officer  left  paratyzed  behind  him,  suggesting  at  the  same  time 
the  advisability  of  having  him  removed  to  a  place  of  safety. 
Gen.  Palmer  sent  an  ambulance  under  a  heavy  escort  to  Wake- 
field's,  and  Quantrell — suffering  greatly  and  scarcely  more  alive 
than  dead — was  hauled  to  the  military  hospital  in  Louisville  and 
deposited  there.  Until  the  question  of  recovery  had  been  abso- 
lutely decided  against  him,  but  few  friends  were  admitted  into 
his  presence.  It'  any  one  conversed  with  him  at  all,  the  conver- 
sation of  necessity  was  required  to  be  carried  on  in  the  presence 
of  an  official.  Mrs.  Ross  visited  him  thus — a  Christian  woman, 
devoted  to  the  South,  and  of  active  and  practical  patriotism — 
and  took  some  dying  messages  to  loved  ones  and  true  ones  in 
Missouri.  Mrs.  Ross  left  him  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  at  four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  the  great  Guerrilla  died. 
His  passing  away — after  a  life  so  singularly  fitful  and  tempest- 


438  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

uous — was  as  the  passing  of  a  summer  cloud.  He  had  been 
asleep,  and  as  he  awoke  he  called  for  water.  A  Sister  of  Charity 
at  the  bedside  put  a  glass  to  his  lips,  but  he  did  not  drink.  She 
heard  him  murmur  once  audibly— "Boys,  get  ready!" — then  a 
long  pause — then  one  word  more — "Steady!" — and  then  when 
she  drew  back  from  bending  over  the  murmuring  man  she  fell 
upon  her  knees  and  prayed.  Quantrell  was  dead! 

Before  his  death  he  had  become  a  Catholic  and  had  been 
visited  daily  by  two  devoted  priests.  To  one  of  these  he  made 
confession,  and  such  a  confession!  He  told  everything.  He 
was  too  serious  and  earnest  a  man  to  do  less.  He  kept  nothing 
back,  not  even  the  least  justifiable  of  his  many  homicides.  As 
the  good  priest  listened  and  listened,  and  as  year  after  year  of 
the  wild  war  work  was  made  to  give  up  its  secrets,  what  manner 
of  a  man  must  the  priest  have  imagined  lay  dying  there — cool, 
precise,  picturesque,  an  Apache  warrior,  and  a  Guerrilla  Chief  ! 
Did  he  get  absolution  where  there  is  only  one  priest,  one  pro- 
pitiation, one  God — the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost?  Did 
Marco  Bozzaris  ?  Did  Leonidas  ?  Did  Charlotte  Corday  ?  Did 
William  Tell  ?  Did  Arnold  Winkelreid  ? 

Let  history  be  just.  On  that  hospital  bed,  watched  by  the 
calm,  colorless  face  of  a  Sister  of  Charity,  a  dead  man  lay  who, 
when  living,  had  filled  with  his  deeds  four  years  of  terrible  war 
history.  A  singularly  placid  look  had  come  with  the  great 
change.  Alike  was  praise  or  censure,  reward  or  punishment. 
Fate  had  done  its  worst,  and  the  future  stood  revealed  to  the 
spirit  made  omniscient  by  its  journey  through  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death.  He  had  done  with  summer's  heat  and  win- 
ter's cold,  with  spectral  ambuscades  and  midnight  vigils. 
There  would  never  be  any  war  in  the  land  of  the  hereafter. 
The  swoop  of  cavalry — the  ringing  of  revolvers — the  rapture  o* 
the  charge — the  roar  of  combat — the  agony 'of  defeat — white 
faces  trampled  by  the  iron  feet  of  horses — the  march — the 
bivouac — the  battle  ;  what  remained  of  these  when  the  transfig- 
uration was  done  and  when  the  river  called  Jordan  rolled 
between  the  shores  of  the  finite  and  the  infinite?  Nothing! 
And  yet  by  these,  standing  or  falling,  must  the  great  Guerrilla 
be  judged. 

Quantrell  differed  in  some  degree  from  every  Guerrilla  who 
was  either  his  comrade  or  his  contemporary.  Not  superior  to* 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  439 

Todd  in  courage  or  in  enterprise,  nor  to  Haller,  Poole,  Jarrette, 
Younger,  Taylor,  Anderson,  Frank  James,  Thrailkill,  Gregg, 
Lea,  Maddox,  DanVaughn,  Blunt ,  or  Yager,  he  yet  had  one 
particular  quality  which  none  of  these  save  Gregg,  Frank 
James,  Lea  and  Younger  possessed  to  the  same  pre-eminent 
degree — extraordinary  resource  or  cunning.  All  the  Guerrillas 
fought.  Indeed,  at  certain  times  and  under  certain  circum- 
stances fighting  might  justly  have  been  considered  the  least  of 
their  accomplishments.  A  successful  leader  required  coolness, 
intrepidity,  robust  health,  fine  horsemanship,  expert  pistol 
practice,  quick  perception  in  peril,  great  rapidity  of  movement, 
immense  activity,  and  ine  orable  fixedness  of  purpose.  Those 
mentioned  excelled  in  these  qualities,  but  at  times  they  were 
too  eager  to  fight,  took  too  many  desperate  chances,  or  rushed 
too  recklessly  into  combats  where  they  could  not  win.  Quan- 
trell  counted  the  cost  of  everything ;  watched  every  way  lest  an 
advantage  should  be  taken  of  him ;  sought  to  shield  and  save 
his  men  ;  strove  by  much  strategy  to  have  the  odds  with  rather 
than  against  him ;  traveled  a  multitude  of  long  roads  rather 
than  one  short  road  once  too  often ;  took  upon  himself  many 
disguises  to  prevent  an  embarrassing  familiarity;  retreated 
often  rather  than  fight  and  be  worsted  ;  kept  scouts  everywhere  ; 
had  the  faculty  of  divination  to  an  almost  occult  degree ; 
believed  in  young  men ;  relied  a  little  upon  mystification ;  paid 
attention  to  small  things ;  listened  to  every  man's  advice  and 
then  took  his  own ;  stood  by  his  soldiers ;  obeyed  strictly  the 
law  of  retaliation ;  preferred  the  old  dispensation  to  the  new — 
that  is  to  say  the  code  of  Moses  to  the  code  of  Jesus  Christ ; 
inculcated  by  precept  and  example  the  self-abnegation  and 
devotion  of  comradeship;  fought  desperately;  carried  a  black 
flag ;  killed  everything ;  made  the  idea  of  surrender  ridiculous ; 
snapped  his  finger  at  death  ;  was  something  of  a  fatalist ;  rarely 
drank ;  trusted  few  women,  but  these  with  his  life ;  played  high 
at  cards;  believed  in  religion;  respected  its  ordinances; 
went  at  intervals  to  church ;  understood  human  nature 
thoroughly ;  never  quarreled ;  was  generally  taciturn,  and 
one  of  the  coolest  and  deadliest  men  in  a  personal 
combat  known  to  the  border.  He  rode  like  he  was 
carved  from  the  horse  beneath  him.  In  an  organization  where 
skill  with  a  pistol  was  a  passport  to  leadership,  he  shot  with  a 


440  NOTED  GUEKEILLAS,  OH 

revolver  as  Leatherstocking  shot  with  a  rifle.  The  strength  of 
his  blow  was  in  its  fury.  No  force  not  greatly  superior  to  his 
own  ever  stood  before  his  onset.  He  drilled  his  men  to  fight 
equally  with  either  hand.  Ambidextered,  they  fought  finally 
with  both.  Fairly  matched,  God  help  the  column  that  came  in 
contact  with  him ! 

As  to  the  kind  of  warfare  Quantrell  waged,  that  is  another 
matter.  History  must  deal  with  him  as  it  finds  him.  Like  the 
war  of  La  Vendee,  the  Guerrilla  war  was  one  rather  of  hatred 
than  of  opinion.  The  regular  Confederates  were  fighting  for  a 
cause  and  a  nationality,  the  Guerrillas  for  vengeance.  Memen- 
toes of  murdered  kinsmen  mingled  with  their  weapons,  vows 
consecrated  the  act  of  enlistment,  and  the  cry  for  blood  was 
heard  from  homestead  to  homestead.  Quantrell  became  a  Guer- 
rilla because  he  had  been  most  savagely  dealt  with,  and  he 
became  a  chief  because  he  had  prudence,  firmness,  courage, 
audacity,  and  common-sense.  In  personal  intrepidity  he  was 
inferior  to  no  man.  His  features  were  pleasing  without  being 
handsome.  His  eyes  were  blue  and  penetrating.  He  had  a 
Roman  nose.  In  height  he  was  five  feet  eleven  inches,  and  his 
form  was  well-knit,  graceful,  and  sinewy.  His  constitution  was 
vigorous,  and  his  physical  endurance  equal  to  an  Indian's.  In 
vigilance,  diligence,  and  perseverance  he  was  pre-eminent.  His 
greatest  qualities  were  developed  by  great  emergencies.  His 
glance  was  rapid  and  unerring.  His  judgment  was  clearest  and 
surest  when  the  responsibility  was  heaviest,  and  when  difficulties 
gathered  thickest  around  him.  Based  upon  skill,  energy,  per- 
spicacity, and  unusual  presence  of  mind,  his  fame  as  a  Guer- 
rilla will  endure  for  generations. 

Quantrell  died  a  Catholic  and  was  buried  in  the  Catholic 
cemetery  at  Louisville.  Since  1865  many  impostors  have 
appeared  in  various  portions  of  the  country,  claiming  to  be  none 
other  than  the  noted  Missouri  Guerrilla.  A  somewhat  peculiar 
case  of  this  kind  occurred  in  the  Spring  of  1866.  General 
Shelby,  in  company  with  probably  half  a  dozen  settlers  of  the 
Carlotta  Colony  of  Cordova,  were  in  Vera  Cruz  waiting  for  the 
American  steamer  to  come  in.  They  had  been  long  upon  the 
mole  and  were  returning,  impatient,  to  their  hotel.  At  that 
moment  a  boat  from  the  steamer  landed  some  passengers  on  the 
quay,  one  of  whom  recognized  Shelby  and  called  out  to  him  to 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  441 

tarry  awhile  longer.  Qnantrell  was  aboard  the  ship  and  would 
soon  be  on  shore.  "Quantrell?"  repeated  Shelby,  in  surprise, 
"what  Quantrell?"  "The  Guerrilla  Quantrell,"  was  the  reply 
of  the  new  comer.  "Impossible,"  rejoined  the  General.  "The 
man  of  whom  you  speak  was  killed  in  Kentucky  and  buried 
there."  While  they  were  talking  the  reputed  Quantrell  made 
his  appearance  in  their  midst.  He  seemed  to  be  anxious  and 
nervous.  He  had  been  told  that  at  Cordova  there  were  some  of 
Quantrell' s  old  men,  and  that  at  Paso  del  Macho  he  would  meet 
John  Thrailkill,  a  famous  companion  in  arms.  When  introduced 
to  Shelby  he  changed  color  visibly.  Shelby  looked  once  at  him, 
looked  once  through  and  through  him,  and  then  summing  him 
up  said  curtly:  "You  are  not  Quantrell."  "I  know  it,  General, 
nor  have  I  ever  claimed  to  be.  When  I  took  passage  at  New 
York  for  Vera  Cruz  a  Confederate  aboard  the  ship  greeted  me 
as  Quantrell,  and  introduced  me  as  Quantrell  to  all  the  passen- 
gers. Against  my  will  I  was  lionized.  Necessity  bade  me  keep 
ray  peace,  however,  and  my  passage  was  paid,  money  was  sub- 
scribed for  me,  the  captain  was  very  kind,  the  ladies  were 
very  gracious ;  but  at  no  single  time  and  in  no  single  unguarded 
moment  did  I  claim  to  be  the  famous  border  fighter  of  the  West. 
I  am  not  Quantrell,  as  none  know  better  than  yourself,  nor 
have  I  ever  in  my  life  seen  Quantrell."  The  man  spoke  the 
simple  truth.  His  imposition  had  been  one  rather  of  omission 
than  commission.  He  had  found  it  profitable  to  be  considered 
the  celebrated  Guerrilla  in  question,  and  he  made  no  explana- 
tion as  long  as  it  paid  him  to  acquiesce  in  the  identity. 

Once  again  in  British  Honduras,  thirteen  of  those  who  had 
participated  in  Shelby's  romantic  expedition  into  Mexico,  were 
wrecked  and  cast  away  upon  the  coast.  Further  inland  where 
the  mahogany  cutters  were  at  work  a  man  was  hiding,  who  called 
himself  Quantrell.  He  was  a  smart,  suspicious,  taciturn  fellow, 
armed  like  an  arsenal  and  lazy  as  a  hedge-hog.  With  the  thir- 
teen castaways  there  were  two  Guerrillas  who  had  really  good 
cause  to  hide  and  were  hiding,  but  when  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  mysterious  impostor  they  found  to  their  infinite  disgust 
a  yellow-bellied  Indian  from  Costa  Rica,  scraping  his  sores  in 
the  ashes  like  Job  and  alive  with  vermin  as  any  beggar. 

Once  again  on  the  Rio  Grande,  in  1868,  the  famous  Guerrilla 
revealed  himself.  A  man  had  been  murdered  for  his  money, 


442  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OS 

twenty  head  of  cattle  driven  successfully  into  Mexico,  a  ranche 
plundered,  and  a  band  of  specious  cut-throats  organized  for 
extensive  devil's  work.  Its  leader  declared  himself  to  be  Quan- 
trell.  He  issued  a  proclamation  and  signed  it  Quantrell.  He 
forewarned  obnoxious  cattle-men  and  threatened  with  death 
unpliant  store  keepers  over  the  signature  of  Quantrell.  Four  of 
Shelby's  old  Brigade,  and  two  of  Todd's  original  company, 
banded  themselves  together  to  destroy  the  bogus  Quantrell. 
Ten  Texans  joined  them,  and  altogether  they  broke  into  a  chap- 
arral where  the  robbers  were,  killed  the  whole  band  save  seven, 
and  brought  the  seven,  wounded,  back,  the  so-called  Quantrell 
among  the  number.  On  the  heels  of  the  capture  came  the  con- 
fession. The  leader  of  these  bandits,  instead  of  being  the  terri- 
ble Missourian,  was  a  Tennessee  man  who  in  1858  had  killed  his 
brother  and  fled  to  Texas.  There — giving  full  play  to  his  fero- 
cious passions — he  became  speedily  a  murderer  and  a  thief. 
For  a  cold  blooded  killing  in  Navarro  county  he  had  been  sent 
to  the  penitentiary  for  ten  years,  had  escaped  by  a  desperate 
rush,  had  fl«d  to  the  unknown  along  the  Rio  Grande,  had  made 
himself  an  evil  name  and  fame  in  its  inaccessible  hiding-places, 
and  had  at  last  been  wounded  and  brought  bound  to  the  judg- 
ment-seat. After  his  story  had  been  fully  told,  there  was  a 
brief  trial  and  a  sudden  punishment.  The  man-slayer  and  the 
cattle-stealer  hung  for  weeks  and  weeks  on  a  tree  by  a  traveled 
highway,  a  terror  to  evil-doers  and  a  ghastly  warning. 

Once  again  a  bogus  Quantrell  appeared  in  Arkansas,  in  1870. 
The  worst  this  one  did  was  to  borrow  money  from  credulous 
sympathizers,  and  successfully  elude  pursuit  after  having  appro- 
priated two  valuable  trotting  horses. 

The  last  scoundrel  to  appropriate  the  name  and  the  fame  of 
the  great  Guerrilla  made  his  appearance  in  Colorado,  close  to 
the  New  Mexican  line.  He  only  confessed  his  identity  to  a  few 
confidential  friends.  He  was  a  ranche  man  and  ostensibly  Mr. 
"William  Harrison.  He  bought  cattle,  sheep,  mules,  dry  goods, 
and  groceries  on  credit.  He  imposed  upon  ex-Guerrillas  in 
various  ways,  but  always  through  the  agency  of  those  who  hud 
not  known  Quantrell,  and  finally  fled  the  country,  a  fugitive 
from  justice  and  a  swindler  to  the  extent  of  four  thousand 
dollars.  It  was  reported  afterwards  that  a  vigilance  committee 
hung  him  in  Utah. 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER         443- 

Quantrell,  a  little  while  before  he  died,  suggested  that  Henry 
Porter  should  collect  together  the  remnant  of  the  Guerrillas 
and  surrender  them  in  a  body.  He  understood  Porter's  capac- 
ity, and  had  unbounded  confidence  in  his  cool  courage  and 
practical  sense.  Porter  fully  deserved  every  encomium  passed 
upon  him  by  his  chief.  Circumspect,  prompt  to  avail  himself 
of  favorable  surroundings,  of  deliberate  judgment,  intrepid,  de- 
voted to  his  comrades  in  arms,  bold  in  the  expression  of  opin- 
ion, and  unyielding  in  his  demands  for  the  same  treatment  ac- 
corded to  the  regular  Confederate  soldier,  he  conferred 
promptly  with  Gen.  Palmer  and  was  as  promptly  granted  an  in- 
terview. Gen.  Palmer  was  in  every  sense  of  the  word  an  up- 
right soldier.  While  the  war  raged,  he  believed  in  making  war 
mean  war;  when  the  end  came  he  believed  in  making  peace 
mean  peace.  He  was  eminently  a  just  man.  He  despised  those 
cruel  hangers-on  of  the  Union  cause  who  lived  in  bomb-proofs. 
The  Cossacks  of  his  command  he  court-martialed.  In  the  field 
he  was  bold,  enterprising  and  full  of  fight.  He  knew  how  to 
follow  up  a  blow,  to  extract  from  a  victory  its  least  possible  ad- 
vantage, to  advance  far,  to  get  much,  to  remain  where  he  had 
halted,  and  to  retain  what  he  had  captured.  Palmer's  terms  to 
Porter  were  most  liberal.  Each  Guerrilla  was  permitted  to  re- 
tain two  revolvers,  what  horses  he  owned,  and  what  amunition 
was  left  to  him.  If  he  was  destitute,  he  was  to  receive  trans- 
portation to  any  portion  of  the  country  he  might  desire  to  go  to. 
No  matter  about  his  past — it  was  not  enquired  into ;  no  matter 
how  evil  his  reputation  had  been — the  war  was  over.  His  oath 
wiped  out  his  outrages — his  parole  was  to  be  looked  upon  as  his 
pardon. 

In  the  meanwhile  a  horrible  outrage  had  been  committed.  A 
most  respectable  woman,  a  Mrs.  Clark,  had  been  outraged 
under  circumstances  of  peculiar  atrocity.  Riding  an  unfre- 
quented road  to  a  neighboring  town  in  quest  of  medicine  or 
medical  attendance  for  an  ailing  neighbor,  she  was  overpowered 
by  two  ruffians  and  monstrously  abused.  Some  who  both  feared 
and  hated  the  remnant  of  QuantrelPs  little  band  accused  them 
of  the  atrocious  act.  Gen.  Palmer — in  a  moment  of  unreasoning 
indignation  unusual  for  him,  joined  in  the  outcry  without  inves- 
tigation and  declared  bitterly  that  until  the  savages  who  did  the 
deed  were  brought  to  him,  living  or  dead,  the  Missouri  Guer- 


444  NOTED  QUEBRILLAS,  OR 

rillas  should  take  their  chances  as  outlaws  and  be  hunted  accord- 
ingly. Equally  with  the  indignation  of  the  Federal  General, 
was  the  indignation  of  the  Missourians.  Frank  James  especially 
was  furious.  Before  Palmer  even  knew  of  the  outrage,  James 
'had  taken  William  Hulse  with  him  and  had  struck  and  followed 
rapidly  the  trail  of  the  scoundrels.  On  the  Chaplin  river,  above 
Chaplin  town,  and  after  a  sleepless  hunt  of  two  days  and  nights, 
the  Guerrillas  came  upon  their  prey.  One  was  a  Kentuckian 
named  Brothers,  and  the  other  a  nondescript  called  Texas.  His 
true  name  was  probably  Jonathan  Billingboy.  These  two  des- 
peradoes had  been  joined  by  a  third,  who,  while  he  was  in  no 
manner  connected  with  the  outrage,  would  probably  in  a  fight 
make  common  cause  with  his  companions.  "There  are  three,'* 
«aid  Hulse,  when  the  trail  had  ended  at  a  house,  and  when  a 
further  reconnoisance  revealed  the  fact  that  none  of  them  had 
left  it.  "Yes,"  replied  James,  "there  are  three.  If  there 
•were  six  it  would  not  matter.*'  They  dismounted  and  tied  their 
horses  in  some  timber  back  from  the  dwelling  and  then  gained 
it  unobserved.  Those  whom  they  sought  were  at  dinner,  armed 
but  indifferent.  Throwing  back  the  door  of  the  dining  room 
unceremoniously,  the  two  Guerrillas  strode  in,  wrathful  and 
accusing.  Frank  James,  always  one  among  the  coolest  and 
and  deadliest  fighters  known  to  the  border,  called  out  in  a  sin- 
gularly placid  yet  penetrating  voice:  "Keep  your  seats,  all  of 
you;  keep  your  hands  up;  keep  your  eyes  to  the  front."  Two 
sat  stone  still,  scarcely  breathing,  hardly  lifting  or  letting  fall 
an  eyelid.  Brothers,  desperate  even  in  extremity  such  as  this, 
snatched  swiftly  for  his  pistol.  Frank  James  blew  his  brains 
out  across  the  table.  The  other  two  did  not  move.  Hulse  cov- 
ered both,  but  did  not  fire.  He  did  not  know  Texas,  and  he 
would  not  kill  an  innocent  man.  Texas,  however,  was  not  one 
of  the  party,  nor  had  he  been  with  -Brothers  since  the  outrage. 
When  this  was  ascertained,  Frank  James  spoke  to  Hulse:  "Our 
work  is  but  half  done  ;  let  us  go  and  finish  it."  It  was  twenty 
miles  to  Alexander  Sayer's  house,  and  these  two  men  rode  the 
distance  rapidly.  They  desired  to  find  as  soon  as  might  be  the 
trail  of  the  second  scoundrel,  no  matter  how  cold  or  indistinct. 
Others  of  his  comrades  had  been  ahead  of  him,  as  swiftly  as  he 
had  ridden,  and  Texas  had  shared  the  fate  of  Brothers.  Cap- 
tured by  John  Eoss,  Henry  Porter  and  Allen  Parmer,  he  had  so 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  445 

vociferously  defended  himself,  and  so  eloquently  pleaded  his 
own  innocence,  that  these  three  intrepid  men — unable,  through 
the  very  excess  of  those  soldierly  qualities  which  had  made 
them  desperately  brave,  to  understand  how  it  was  possible  to 
commit  such  a  crime — listened  rather  favorably  to  his  protesta- 
tions and  permitted  him  to  retain  his  pistols  and  ride  leisurely 
along  with  them  towards  the  house  of  Benedict  Pashe.  Mr.  Pashe 
would  establish  his  innocence  beyond  all  controversy.  Mr. 
Pashe  knew  of  his  immediate  whereabouts  the  day  Brothers  did 
his  devil's  work,  and  Mr.  Pashe  would  make  his  alibi  impervious 
to  assault.  Mr.  Pashe  never  had  an  opportunity  to  say  to  the 
plausible  story  yea  or  nay.  While  yet  distant  from  his  house  a 
mile  and  more,  Texas  broke  away  from  his  accommodating  cap- 
tors and  fled  like  an  Arab.  Better  mounted  than  either  Ross 
or  Porter,  Texas  soon  outstripped  them,  untouched  by  the 
bullets  sent  after  him,  and  would  have  escaped  altogether  if  the 
speed  of  the  start  had  been  joined  to  the  bottom  of  Farmer's 
horse.  A  gallop  of  a  mile,  however,  told  the  story  of  the  chase. 
Texas  was  a  thorough  cavalryman,  though  a  born  robber.  He 
knew  by  the  laboring  breath  of  his  steed,  the  reeling  stride,  the 
foam  of  an  unnatural  perspiration,  the  uncertain  way  the  feet 
took  hold  of  the  ringing  turnpike,  the  almost  human  agony 
the  faithful  animal  manifested  over  its  own  failing  powers,  that 
the  end  was  nigh  at  hand.  He  looked  back  once  as  he  crowned 
the  crest  of  a  sudden  hill  and  saw  Pariner,  fixed  as  fate  in  the 
saddle  and  as  immovable,  gaining  upon  him  hand  over  hand. 
There  was  one  resource  left — common  alike  to  the  ant  or  the 
elephant — he  could  fight.  He  halted  his  blown  horse  and 
turned  about.  Farmer  came  right  on,  a  pistol  in  his  right  hand 
and  the  reins  well  gathered  up  in  his  left.  At  fifty  paces  he 
fired  at  Texas  and  missed  him.  Texas  stood  fast,  his  face 
wearing  a  hunted  look  and  his  eyes  wolfish.  At  thirty  paces  the 
two  fired  simultaneously,  Farmer  missing  again,  but  Texas- 
wounding  his  horse  severely  if  not  fatally.  Farmer  lessened  the 
distance  by  a  spur  stroke  and  fired  the  third  time  at  Texas 
barely  ten  feet  away.  This  time  he  did  not  miss.  Game  to  the 
last,  Texas,  even  as  he  reeled  in  the  saddle,  gripped  his  own 
horse  with  his  knees,  steadied  himself  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
fired  twice  at  Farmer  before  he  fell.  He  had  been  hurt  too 
badly,  however,  to  be  accurate.  Another  bullet  in  the  breast 


446  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OB 

finished  him.  As  he  had  lived,  so  had  he  died — a  bad,  stoical, 
unrepentant  man.  The  bodies  of  both  Texas  and  Brothers 
were  carried  by  the  Federals  into  Bardstown  and  identified  by 
Mrs.  Clark  as  the  bodies  of  her  assailants.  Justice  was  satis- 
fied, and  Palmer  was  appeased.  The  Guerrillas  had  washed 
out  the  stain  cast  upon  them  in  blood,  and  public  opinion — 
from  being  their  slanderers  and  detractors — commenced  sud- 
denly to  flatter  and  to  speak  many  gracious  words  in  praise  of 
them.  Coolly  circumspect  and  quick  to  recognize  the  turn  of  a 
tide  that  had  risen  to  flood  in  their  favor,  Henry  Porter  gathered 
hurriedly  together  the  remnant  of  Quantrell's  torn,  scarred  and 
decimated  Guerrilla  band,  just  eighteen  in  all,  and  surrendered 
them  at  Samuels  Depot,  Nelson  county,  July  25th,  1865.  Cap- 
tain Younger,  of  the  47th  Kentucky,  assisted  by  Lieutenant 
Campbell,  of  the  same  regiment,  received  and  paroled  the  Guer- 
rillas. These  two  gallant  officers  were  especially  generous  and 
obliging.  Soldiers  themselves  who  had  seen  real  service,  they 
respected  brave  men  and  recognized  intrepidity  even  in  an 
enemy.  Capt.  Younger,  as  delicately  as  possible,  administered 
the  oath,  and  Lieut.  Campbell,  with  equal  good-breeding, 
required  of  the  Guerrillas  their  promise  simply  that  they  would 
not  retain  more  pistols  than  were  permitted  by  the  terms  of  sur- 
render. This  little  band — scarcely  a  fragment  of  that  terrible 
organization  known  so  well  to  the  border — was  the  last  of 
the  Guerrilla  race.  They  went  their  separate  ways  quietly 
and  in  order.  It  had  been  a  cruel,  desperate,  remorseless 
race.  It  was  the  offspring  of  the  fury  and  the  agony  of 
invasion.  It  did  as  it  was  done  by ;  it  killed  and  it  was  killed. 
As  the  Missouri  Guerrilla  excelled  in  certain  military  character- 
istics, so  also  did  his  reputation  have  over  it  the  glare  of  a  more 
sinister  light.  Personal  prowess  always  attracts,  no  matter  how 
utterly  abused  or  misapplied.  In  the  West  especially  is  this  the 
case.  Individual  daring,  more  perfect  the  nearer  the  man 
approaches  the  pastoral  life,  is  a  peculiar  feature  of  Western 
civilization.  It  existed  in  a  latent  yet  easily  aroused  condition 
before  the  war,  now  and  then  breaking  forth  into  deeds  of 
sudden  yet  antique  heroism,  and  since  the  war — uickened  by 
all  the  tremendous  energies  of  the  strife,  and  given  a  new  phase 
because  of  a  society  that  in  losing  its  homogenity  lost  its  power 
to  entirely  control  an  element  so  liable  to  excess — it  has  become 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  447 

a  part  of  the  character  of  the  people  themselves.  With  such, 
and  for  the  next  two  or  three  generations,  the  Guerrilla  will  be 
an  object  of  study,  admiration,  or  respect.  The  Missouri  Guer- 
rilla—eminently pastoral,  desperate  in  extremity,  unsparing  in 
combat,  and  savage  to  the  last,  will  remain  the  typical  Guerrilla 
of  the  war.  As  he  lived,  and  fought,  and  died,  this  narrative 
shows,  if  it  shows  anything.  As  he  was  beat  upon  by  the  fierce 
blasts  of  the  civil  strife  and  driven  hither  and  thither,  sometimes 
a  fugitive  and  sometimes  a  wild  beast  at  bay,  it  has  likewise 
been  the  mission  of  this  history  to  set  forth.  He  is  interesting 
because  he  was  Anglo-Saxon.  If  through  similar  convulsions 
the  race  —  of  which  he  was  the  best  living  exponent — should 
again  make  its  appearance,  those  who  choose  to  understand 
something  of  his  nature,  and  something  of  his  mode  of  warfare, 
may  not  conclude  that  this  book  has  been  altogether  written 
in  vain. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AFTER  THE  WAR. 

TO  THE  great  mass  of  the  Guerrillas  the  end  of  the  war  also- 
brought  an  end  to  their  armed  resistance.  As  an  organi- 
zation, they  never  fought  again.  The  most  of  them  kept  their 
weapons ;  a  few  had  great  need  to  keep  them.  Some  were  kill- 
ed because  of  the  terrible  renown  won  in  the  four  years'  war ; 
some  were  forced  to  hide  themselves  in  the  unknown  of  the  out- 
lying territories ;  and  some  were  mercilessly  persecuted  and 
driven  into  desperate  defiance  and  resistance  because  they 
were  human  and  intrepid.  To  this  latter  class  the  Jameses  and 
Youngers  belonged.  No  men  ever  strove  harder  to  put  the  past 
behind  them.  No  men  ever  submitted  more  sincerely  to  the  re- 
sult of  a  war  that  had  as  many  excesses  on  one  side  as  on  the 
other.  No  men  ever  went  to  work  with  a  heartier  good  will  to 
keep  good  faith  with  society  and  make  themselves  amenable  to 
the  law.  No  men  ever  sacrificed  more  for  peace,  and  for  the 
bare  privilege  of  doing  just  as  hundreds  like  them  had  done — 
the  privilege  of  going  back  again  into  the  obscurity  of  civil  life 
and  becoming  again  a  part  of  the  enterprising  economy  of  the 
commonwealth.  They  were  not  permitted  so  to  do,  try  how 
they  would,  and  as  hard,  and  as  patiently. 

After  the  death  of  Quantrell  and  the  surrender  of  the  remnant 
of  his  Guerrillas,  Frank  James  was  not  permitted,  at  first,  to  re- 
turn to  Missouri  at  all,  much  less  to  his  home  in  Clay  county. 
He  lingered  in  Kentucky  as  long  as  possible,  very  circumspect 
in  his  actions  and  very  conservative  in  his  behavior.  Tempted 
one  day  by  his  beardless  face  and  innocent  walk  and  talk  to  bear 
upon  him  roughly,  four  Federal  soldiers  set  upon  Frank  James 
in  Brandenburg  and  made  haste  to  force  an  issue.  For  a  moment 
the  old  fire  of  his  earlier  and  stormier  days  flared  up  all  of  a  sud- 
den from  the  ashes  of  the  past  and  consumed  as  with  a  single 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  449 

hot  blast  of  passion  prudence,  accountability,  caution  and  dis- 
cretion. He  fought  as  he  had  fought  at  Centralia.  Two  of  the 
Federals  were  killed  instantly,  the  third  was  desperately 
wounded,  while  the  fourth  shot  Frank  badly  in  the  point  of 
the  left  hip,  inflicting  a  grievous  hurt  and  one  which  caused  him 
afterwards  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  pain.  Staunch  friends 
hid  him  while  the  hue  and  cry  were  heaviest,  and  careful  surgical 
attention  brought  him  back  to  life  when  he  lay  so  close  to 
death's  door  that  by  the  lifting  of  a  hand  he  might  also  have 
lifted  its  latch.  This  fight,  however,  was  not  one  of  his  own 
seeking,  nor  one  which  he  could  have  avoided  without  the  exhi- 
bition of  a  quality  he  never  had  known  anything  about  and 
never  could  know  anything  about — physical  cowardice. 

Jesse  James — emaciated,  tottering  as  he  walked,  fighting  what 
seemed  to  every  one  a  hopeless  battle  of  "the  skeleton  boy  against 
skeleton  death" — joined  his  mother  in  Nebraska  and  returned 
with  her  to  their  home  near  Kearney,  in  Clay  county.  His 
wound  would  not  heal,  and  more  ominous  still,  every  now  and 
then  there  was  a  hemorrhage.  In  the  spring  of  1866  he  was 
just  barely  able  to  mount  a  horse  and  ride  a  little.  And  he  did 
ride,  but  he  rode  armed,  watchful,  vigilant,  haunted.  He  might 
be  killed,  waylaid,  ambuscaded,  assassinated;  but  he  would  be 
killed  with  his  eyes  open  and  his  pistols  about  him.  The  hunt 
for  this  maimed  and  emaciated  Guerrilla  culminated  on  the 
night  of  February  18th,  1867.  On  this  night  an  effort  was  made 
to  kill  him.  Five  militiamen,  well  armed  and  mounted,  came  to 
his  mother's  house  and  demanded  admittance.  The  weather  was 
bitterly  cold,  and  Jesse  James,  parched  with  a  fever,  was  tossing 
wearily  in  bed.  His  pistols  were  under  his  head.  His  step-father, 
Dr.  Samuel,  heard  the  militiamen  as  they  walked  upon  the  front 
porch,  and  demanded  to  know  what  they  wanted.  They  told  him 
to  open  the  door.  He  came  up  to  Jesse's  room  and  asked  him 
what  he  should  do.  "Help  me  to  the  window,"  was  the  low, 
calm  reply,  "that  I  may  look  out.*'  He  did  so.  There  was 
snow  on  the  ground  and  the  moon  was  shining.  He  saw  that 
all  the  horses  hitched  to  the  fence  had  on  cavalry  saddles,  and 
then  he  knew  that  the  men  were  soldiers.  He  had  but  one  of 
two  things  to  do — drive  them  away  or  die.  He  had  never  sur- 
rendered and  he  never  would.  Incensed  at  his  step-father's 
silence,  they  were  hammering  at  the  door  with  the  butts  of  their 
29  ' 


450  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

muskets  and  calling  out  to  Jesse  to  come  down,  swearing  that 
they  knew  he  was  in  the  house,  and  that  they  would  have  him  out, 
dead  or  alive.  He  went  down  stairs  softly,  having  first  dressed 
himself,  crept  up  close  to  the  front  door  and  listened  until 
from  the  talk  of  the  men  he  thought  he  was  able  to  get  a  fatally 
accurate  pistol  range.  Then  he  put  a  heavy  dragoon  revolver 
to  within  three  inches  of  the  upper  panel  of  the  door  and  fired. 
A  man  cried  out  and  fell.  Before  the  surprise  was  off  he  threw 
the  door  wide  open,  and  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand  began  a 
rapid  fusillade.  A  second  man  was  killed  as  he  ran,  two  men 
were  wounded  severely,  and  surrendered,  while  the  fifth 
marauder,  terrified,  yet  unhurt,  rushed  swiftly  to  his  horse  and 
escaped  in  the  darkness. 

What  else  could  Jesse  James  have  done?  In  those  evil  days 
bad  men  in  bands  were  doing  bad  things  continually  in  the 
name  of  law,  order  and  vigilance  committees.  He  had  been  a 
desperate  Guerrilla ;  he  had  fought  under  a  black  flag ;  he  had 
made  a  name  for  terrible  prowess  along  the  border ;  he  had  sur- 
vived dreadful  wounds ;  it  was  known  that  he  would  fight  at  any 
hour  or  in  any  way ;  he  could  not  be  frightened  out  from  his 
native  county ;  he  could  be  neither  intimidated  nor  robbed,  and 
hence  the  wanton  war  waged  upon  Jesse  and  Frank  James,  and 
hence  the  reasons  why  to-day  they  are  outlaws,  and  hence  the 
reasons  also  that — outlaws  as  they  are  and  proscribed  in  county, 
or  State,  or  territory — they  have  more  friends  than  the  officers 
who  hunt  them,  and  more  defenders  than  the  armed  men  who 
seek  to  secure  their  bodies,  dead  or  alive. 

Since  1865  it  has  been  pretty  much  one  eternal  ambush  for 
these  two  men — one  unbroken  and  eternal  hunt  twelve  years 
long.  They  have  been  followed,  trailed,  surrounded,  shot  at, 
wounded,  ambushed,  surprised,  watched,  betrayed,  proscribed, 
outlawed,  driven  from  State  to  State,  made  the  objective  points 
of  infallible  detectives,  and  they  have  triumphed.  By  some 
intelligent  people  they  are  regarded  as  myths ;  by  others  as  in 
league  with  the  devil.  They  are  neither,  but  they  are  uncom- 
mon men.  Neither  touches  whisky.  Neither  travels  twice  the 
same  road.  Neither  tells  the  direction  from  which  he  came  nor 
the  direction  in  which  he  means  to  go.  They  are  rarely 
together,  but  yet  they  are  never  far  apart.  There  is  a  design 
in  this — the  calm,  cool,  deadly  design  of  men  who  recognize  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  451 

perils  which  beset  them  and  who  are  not  afraid  to  die.  They 
travel  this  way  because  if  any  so-called  friend — tempted  by  the 
large  rewards  offered  for  the  life  of  either — should  seek  to  take  it 
and  succeed,  the  other,  safe  from  the  snare  and  free  to  do  his 
worst,  is  pledged  to  avenge  the  brother  slain  through  treachery, 
and  avenge  him  surely.  That  he  will  do  it  none  doubt  who 
know  the  men.  In  addition,  the  Jameses  trust  very  few  people — 
two  probably  out  of  every  ten  thousand.  They  come  and  go  as 
silently  as  the  leaves  fall.  They  never  boast.  They  have 
many  names  and  many  disguises.  They  speak  low,  are  polite, 
deferential  and  accommodating.  They  do  not  kill  save  in  stub- 
born self-defence.  They  have  nothing  in  common  with  a  mur- 
derer. They  hate  the  highwayman  and  the  coward.  They  are 
outlaws,  but  they  are  not  criminals,  no  matter  what  preju- 
diced public  opinion  may  declare,  or  malignant  partisan  dislike 
make  noisy  with  reiteration.  The  war  made  them  desperate 
Guerrillas,  and  the  harpies  of  the  war — the  robbers  who  came  in 
the  wake  of  it  and  the  cut-throats  who  came  to  the  surface 
as  the  honorble  combatants  settled  back  again  into  civilized 
life — proscribed  them  and  drove  them  into  resistance.  They 
were  men  who  could  not  be  bullied — who  were  too  intrepid  to 
be  tyrannized  over — who  would  fight  a  regiment  just  as  quickly 
as  they  would  fight  a  single  individual — who  owned  property 
and  meant  to  keep  it — who  were  born  in  Clay  county  and  did 
not  mean  to  be  driven  out  of  Clay  county — and  who  had  sur- 
rendered in  good  faith,  but  who  because  of  it  did  not  intend  any 
the  less  to  have  their  rights  and  receive  the  treatment  the 
balance  of  the  Southern  sold;ers  received.  This  is  the  summing 
up  of  the  whole  history  of  these  two  men  since  the  war. 
They  were  hunted,  and  they  were  human.  They  replied 
to  proscription  by  defiance,  ambushment  by  ambush- 
ment,  musket  shot  by  pistol  shot,  night  attack  by  counter 
attack,  charge  by  counter-charge,  and  so  will  they  do,  desper- 
ately and  with  splendid  heroism,  until  the  end. 

Jesse  James,  to-day  however,  owes  his  life  to  Dr.  A.  P.  Lank- 
ford.  After  the  night  attack  on  his  mother's  house,  and  after  his 
escape  from  the  toils  which  beset  him  so  closely  there,  much 
exposure  in  pitiless  weather  made  his  wound  open  and  bleed 
afresh.  He  could  neither  walk,  ride,  nor  be  hauled  about  in  a 
wagon.  He  had  to  be  left  at  a  house  deep  in  some  heavy 


452  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

timber,  and  to  run  twice  the  risk  of  death — once  from  the  wound 
which  would  not  heal,  and  once  from  blood-thirsty  enemies  up 
and  after  him  in  every  direction.  Lankford  even  then  was  both 
surgeon  and  Samaritan.  He  had  a  theory  that  he  never  knew  a 
man  until  he  handled  his  wrist,  and  he  had  also  two  mistresses, 
science  and  great  good  humor.  An  excellent  appetite  gave  him 
always  a  hearty  laugh,  and  this  to  a  certain  extent  Was  infec- 
tious. It  had  this  principle  of  magnetism,  it  was  always  genial. 
In  the  capacity  of  a  man  of  all  hours  he  came  to  surprise  the 
secrets  of  this  wounded  Guerrilla.  Maybe  he  was  a  little  super- 
stitious; what  physicians  are  not?  He  had  also  his  favorites. 
He  believed  in  calomel,  pulled  off  his  hat  to  quinine,  flattered 
carbolic  acid  high  up  in  the  pharmacopoeia,  caressed  chloroform, 
gazed  at  opium  through  his  half  shut  eyes,  laid  a  hand  warily 
upon  hydrate  of  chloral,  and  kept  his  knifes  and  his  needles, 
his  cutting  things  and  his  thrusting  things  as  the  young  Lochtn- 
var  kept  the  steed  that  he  was  to  ride  out  of  the  West.  He 
called  nature  the  good  God  of  the  cleanly  man.  He  loved  to 
meet  death  face  to  face,  to  grapple  with  him,  to  overthrow  him. 
Death  is  a  coward,  he  said.  Half  the  time  he  will  run  if  he  is 
crowded.  One  day  a  heavy  wagon  ran  over  a  man's  leg  and 
crushed  the  bones  horribly.  A  crowd  collected.  Sympathy 
was  given,  but  the  man  wanted  air — he  had  fainted.  Dr.  Lank- 
ford  charged  the  crowd,  awed,  cowed,  dispersed  it,  and  seized 
the  leg  as  he  would  a  thief  by  the  throat.  "It  must  come  off,'* 
said  a  young  physician  standing  by,  with  a  fine  experimental 
frenzy  rolling  in  his  scared,  uncertain  eyes  and  the  monotonous 
sing-song  of  the  mechanical  graduate  in  his  hesitating  voice. 
"Eh?  What!  Come  off?  So  must  a  man's  hat  when  the  king 
passes;  but  suppose  the  king  does  not  pass,  what  then?  The 
hat  stays  on.  Water,  water,  water — is  all  you  want.  Water 
enough  to  swallow  up  the  knife,  and  drown  the  surgeon,  and 
rust  away  the  teeth  of  the  saw.  It  is  the  mission  of  the  surgeon 
not  to  mutilate.  «•  The  steel — yes ;  the  steel  is  good  like  fire,  or 
strychnine,  or  prussic  acid,  or  the  dead  man  brought  to  the  dis- 
secting room  dead  of  a  plague ;  but  back  of  the  whole  business 
there  must  be  common  sense.  Lift  him  up,  some  of  you,  and 
carry  him  home.  In  twenty  minutes  after  he  is  laid  upon  his 
wife's  bed  I'll  make  that  mangled  leg  of  his  as  good  as  new." 
It  was  this  manner  of  a  man  who  went  deep  into  the  brush  in 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  453 

quest  of  the  crippled  Guerrilla,  and  found  him  where  on  one 
hand  was  a  swamp,  on  the  other  a  river  bottom,  and  everywhere 
malaria.  He  stripped  him  and  summed  him  up.  Those  blue 
and  red  spots  about  his  body  were  bullet  wounds.  Across  his 
head  was  a  long  white  scar.  The  breech  of  a  gun  in  the  sinewy 
hands  of  a  powerful  Federal  had  made  this.  The  great  open  ulcer 
from  right  breast  to  back  was  the  ulcer  of  the  ounce  ball  the 
carbine  of  a  Wisconsin  cavalryman  fired.  At  intervals  the  skeleton 
was  hot  br  cold,  at  intervals  it  shook  or  was  on  fire.  The 
malaria  had  taken  hold.  "Will  I  die,  Doctor?"  a  mighty  weak 
voice  asked  of  Lankford.  "How  brave  are  you?"  "Brave 
enough  to  know  the  worst."  "Then  you  will  not  die.  But 
you  must  get  away  from  here — get  on  the  sea — get  where  the 
air  is  pure— get  where  you  can  feel  the  sunshine  as  a  man  feels 
wine — get  far  from  this  river  mist  which  is  perpetually  in 
ambush,  far  from  this  tawny  exhalation  that  is  even  now  creep- 
ing about  the  matted  undergrowth  and  the  stagnant  water." 
For  a  month  Lankford  waited  on  James,  put  him  once  more  on 
his  feet,  enabled  him  once  more  to  encompass  praying  ground 
and  pleading  terms,  added  a  little  color  to  his  cheeks  one  day 
and  a  little  iron  to  his  blood  the  next,  forced  him  to  ride  and  to 
walk,  built  up  the  fortifications  in  one  direction  that  fever  and 
suppuration  had  thrown  down  in  another,  and  finally  cured  his 
patient  for  good,  and  all  by  getting  him  aboard  a  ship  at  New 
York  and  ordering  him  to  stay  aboard  until  he  got  to  San 
Francisco. 

The  future  of  the  Youngers  after  the  war  closed  was  similar 
in  many  respects  to  that  of  the  Jameses.  Cole  was  in  Califor- 
nia when  the  surrender  came,  and  he  immediately  accepted  the 
situation.  He  returned  to  Missouri,  determined  to  forget  the 
past,  and  fixed  in  his  purpose  to  re-unite  the  scattered  members 
of  his  once  prosperous  and  happy  family,  and  prepare  and  make 
comfortable  a  home  for  his  stricken  and  suffering  mother. 
Despite  everything  that  has  been  said  and  written  of  this  man, 
he  was  during  all  the  terrible  border  war  a  generous  and  a  mer- 
ciful man.  Others  killed,  and  killed  at  that  in  any  form,  or 
guise,  or  fashion — he  alone  in  open  and  honorable  battle.  His 
heart  was  always  kind,  and  his  sympathies  always  easily  aroused. 
He  not  only  took  prisoners  himself,  but  he  treated  them  after- 
wards as  prisoners,  and  released  them  to  rejoin  commands  that 


454  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

spared  nothing  alive  of  Guerrilla  associations  that  fell  into  their 
hands.  He  was  the  oldest  son,  and  all  the  family  looked  up  to  him. 
His  mother  had  been  driven  out  of  Cass  county  into  Jackson, 
out  of  Jackson  into  Lafayette,  and  out  of  Lafayette  into  Jack- 
son again.  Not  content  with  butchering  the  father  in  cold  blood, 
the  ravenous  cut-throats  and  thieves  followed  the  mother  with  & 
malignity  unparalleled.  Every  house  she  owned  or  inhabited 
was  burnt,  every  out-building,  every  rail,  every  straw  stack, 
every  corn  pen,  every  pound  of  food  and  every  store  of  forage. 
Her  stock  was  stolen.  Her  household  goods  were  even  appro- 
priated. She  had  no  place  to  lay  her  head  that  could  be  called 
her  own,  and  but  for  the  kindness  and  Christianity  of  her  devot- 
ed neighbors,  she  must  have  suffered  grievously.  At  this  time 
Coleman  and  James  returned  to  Missouri  and  went  hopefully 
and  bravely  to  work.  Their  father's  land  remained  to  them. 
That  at  least  had  neither  been  set  fire  to,  hauled  off  in  wagons, 
appropriated,  confiscated,  nor  driven  over  into  Kansas.  West- 
ern Missouri  was  then  full  of  disbanded  Federal  soldiers,  organ- 
ized squads  of  predatory  Red  Legs  and  Jay  hawkers,  horse 
thieves  disguised  as  vigilance  committees,  and  highway  robbers 
known  as  law  and  order  men.  In  addition,  Drake's  constitution 
disfranchised  every  property  owner  along  the  border.  An  hon- 
est man  could  not  hold  office  ;  a  civilized  man  could  not  officially 
stand  between  the  helpless  of  his  community  and  the  iea ported 
lazzaroni  who  preyed  upon  them ;  a  decent  man's  voice  could 
not  be  heard  above  the  clamor  of  the  beggars  quarrelling  over 
stolen  plunder;  and  a  just  man's  expostulation  penetrated 
never  into  the  councils  of  the  chief  scoundrels  who  planned  the 
murders  and  the  robberies. 

Coleman  Younger 's  work  was  like  the  work  of  a  pioneer  in 
the  wilderness,  but  he  did  it  as  became  the  hardy  descendant  of 
a  stalwart  race  of  pioneers.  He  cut  logs  and  built  a  comforta- 
ble log  house  for  his  mother.  He  made  rails  and  fenced  in  his 
land.  In  lieu  of  horses  or  mules,  he  plowed  with  oxen.  He 
•  staid  steadfastly  at  home.  He  heard  rumors  of  threats  being 
made  against  his  life,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  them.  He 
took  part  in  no  political  meetings.  He  tried  to  hide  himself 
and  be  forgotten.  The  blood-hounds  were  on  his  track,  how- 
ever, and  swore  to  either  kill  him  or  drive  him  from  the  country. 
A  vigilance  committee  composed  of  skulking  murderers  and  red- 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOH  DEB        455 

handed  Kansas  robbers  went  one  night  to  surprise  the  two 
brothers  and  end  the  hunt  with  a  massacre.  Forewarned, 
James  and  Coleman  fled.  The  family  was  wantonly  insulted, 
and  a  younger  brother,  John,  a  mere  boy,  was  brutally  beaten 
and  then  hung  until  life  was  nearly  extinct.  This  was  done  to 
force  him  to  tell  of  the  whereabouts  of  James  and  Coleman.  Mrs. 
Younger  never  entirely  recovered  from  the  shock  of  this  night's 
work,  lingering  along  hopelessly  yet  patiently  for  several  months 
and  finally  dying  in  the  full  assurance  of  the  Christian's  blessed 
hereafter. 

The  death  of  this  persecuted  woman,  however,  did  not  end 
the  persecution.  Cole  Younger  was  repeatedly  waylaid  and 
fired  at.  His  stock  was  killed  through  mere  deviltry,  or  driven 
off  to  swell  the  gains  of  insatiable  wolves.  His  life  was  in 
hourly  jeopardy,  as  was  the  life  of  his  brother  James.  They 
plowed  in  the  fields  as  men  who  saw  suspended  over  them  a 
naked  sword-blade.  They  permitted  no  lights  to  be  lit  in  the 
house  at  night.  They  traveled  the  public  highways  warily. 
They  were  hunted  men  and  proscribed  men  in  the  midst  of  their 
own  people.  They  were  chased  away  from  their  premises  by 
armed  men.  Once  Cole  was  badly  wounded  by  the  bullet  of  an 
assassin.  Once,  half-dressed,  he  had  to  flee  for  his  life.  If  he 
made  a  crop,  he  was  not  permitted  to  gather  it,  and  when  some- 
thing of  success  might  have  come  to  him  after  the  expenditure 
of  so  much  toil,  energy,  long-suffering  and  forbearance,  he  was 
not  let  alone  in  peace  long  enough  to  utilize  his  returns  and 
make  out  of  his  resources  their  legitimate  gains. 

Of  course  there  could  be  but  one  ending  to  all  this  long  and 
unbroken  series  of  malignant  persecutions,  lyings-in-wait,  mid- 
night surprises,  perpetual  robbings,  and  most  villainous  assaults 
and  attempted  murders — Coleman  and  James  Younger  left  home 
and  left  Jackson  county.  They  buckled  on  their  pistols  and 
rode  away  to  Texas,  resolved  from  that  time  on  to  protect  them- 
selves, to  fight  when  they  were  attacked,  and  to  make  it  so  hot 
for  the  assassins  and  the  detectives  who  were  eternally  on  their 
track  that  by  and  by  the  contract  taken  to  murder  them  would 
be  a  contract  not  particularly  conducive  to  steady  investments. 
They  were  hounded  to  it.  They  endured  every  species  of  insult 
and  attack,  and  would  have  still  continued  to  endure  it  in  silence 
and  almost  unresisting,  if  such  forbearance  had  mitigated  in  any 


456  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

manner  the  virulence  of  their  enemies,  or  brought  any  nearer  to 
its  appeasement  the  merciless  fate  which  seemed  to  be  eternally 
at  their  heels.  What  they  did  in  self-defense  any  Anglo-Saxon 
would  have  done  who  did  not  have  in  his  veins  the  blood  of  a 
slave.  The  peaceful  pursuits  of  life  were  denied  to  them.  The 
law  which  should  have  protected  them  was  over-ridden.  Indeed 
there  was  no  law.  The  courts  were  instruments  of  plunder. 
The  civil  officers  were  cut-throats.  Instead  of  a  legal  process, 
there  was  a  vigilance  committee.  Men  were  hung  because  of  a 
very  natural  desire  to  keep  hold  of  their  own  property.  To  the 
cruel  vigor  of  actual  war,  there  had  succeeded  the  irresponsible 
despotism  of  greedy  highwaymen  buttressed  upon  assassination. 
The  border  counties  were  overrun  with  bands  of  predatory  plun- 
derers. Some  Confederate  soldiers  dared  not  return  home,  and 
many  Guerrillas  fled  the  country.  It  was  dark  everywhere,  and 
the  bravest  held  their  breath,  not  knowing  how  much  longer  they 
would  be  permitted  to  remain  peacefully  at  home,  or  suffered  to 
enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  labors.  Fortunately  for  all,  however, 
the  well  nigh  extinct  embers  of  a  merciless  border  war  were  not 
blown  upon  long  enough  and  persistently  enough  tx>  kindle 
another  conflagration.. 

But  neither  the  Jameses  nor  the  Youngers  have  been  per- 
mitted to  rest  long  at  any  one  time  since  the  surrender  of  the 
Confederate  armies.  Some  dastardly  deeds  have  been  done 
against  them,  too,  in  the  name  of  the  law.  Take  for  example 
Pinkerton's  midnight  raid  upon  the  house  of  Mrs.  Zerelda 
Samuel,  the  mother  of  the  James  boys.  The  family  were 
wrapped  in  profound  sleep.  Only  women  and  children  were 
about  the  premises,  and  an  old  man  long  past  his  prime.  The 
cowards — how  many  is  not  accurately  known,  probably  a 
dozen — crept  close  to  this  house  through  the  midnight,  sur- 
rounded it,  found  its  inmates  asleep,  and  threw  into  the  kitchen 
where  an  old  negro  woman  was  in  bed  with  her  children,  alighted 
hand-grenade,  wrapped  aboufc  with  flannel  saturated  with  tur- 
pentine. The  lurid  light  from  this  inflammable  fluid  awakened 
the  negro  woman,  and  she  in  turn  awakened  the  sleeping  whites. 
They  rushed  to  subdue  the  flames  and  save  their  property. 
Children  were  gathered  together  in  the  kitchen,  little  things, 
helpless  and  terrified.  All  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  terrible 
explosion.  Mrs.  Samuel's  right  arm  was  blown  off  above  the 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  457 

elbow,  a  bright  little  boy,  eight  years  of  age,  had  his  bowels 
torn  out,  Dr.  Samuel  was  seriously  cut  and  hurt,  the  old  negro 
woman  was  maimed,  and  several  of  the  other  children  more  or 
less  injured.  The  hand-grenade  had  done  its  work,  and  there 
had  been  a  tragedy  performed  by  men  calling  themselves  civ- 
ilized, in  the  midst  of  a  peaceful  community  and  upon  a  help- 
less family  of  women  and  c  hildren  that  would  have  disgraced 
Nero  or  made  some  of  the  monstrous  murders  of  Diocletian  as 
white  is  to  black.  Yet  Pinkerton's  paid  assassins  did  this  because 
his  paid  assassins  knew  better  how  to  kill  women  and  children 
than  armed  men  in  open  combat. 

Take  for  example  another  act  of  Pinkerton's  paid  assassins. 
The  first  party  of  men  sent  down  into  St.  Glair  county,  Mis- 
souri, looking  for  the  Youngers,  was  encountered  by  Cole 
Younger,  having  with  him  his  three  brothers,  James,  Robert 
and  John.  There  were  fifteen  of  the  hunters,  heavily  armed 
and  prolific  in  promises  of  speedy  overthrow.  Cole  came  upon 
them  suddenly,  covered  the  whole  detachment  with  a  double- 
barreled  shot-gun,  and  demanded  a  surrender.  It  was 
instantly  accorded,  and  Cole  then  calmly  and  kindly  reasoned 
with  them  against  the  injustice  of  their  course.  They  were 
hunting  him  and  his  brothers,  he  said,  without  cause,  and  as 
wild  beasts  were  hunted.  He  told  them  that  he  wanted  to  live 
at  peace  with  the  law  and  his  neighbors.  God  knew  that  he 
had  had  strife  enough.  He  had  never  in  all  his  life  harmed  a 
man  wantonly,  or  killed  a  man  wantonly,  or  imposed  upon  a 
man  wantonly.  He  had  never  committed  a  robbery  in  his  life, 
no  matter  what  the  reports  were,  and  he  asked  only  to  be  put 
upon  the  same  footing  exactly  that  other  law-abiding  citizens 
occupied,  and  to  be  treated  as  a  human  being  instead  of  an 
outlaw.  Then  he  restored  their  arms  to  the  posse  and  dismissed 
them  without  a  scratch.  Thes£  were  citizens  of  the  county, 
however,  and  were  satisfied  with  the  treatment  they  had  received 
and  with  Cole's  explanation.  Not  so  with  Pinkerton  and  his 
paid  assassins.  This  great  Chicago  bugaboo  had  been  worsted 
in  every  encounter  with  those  of  the  border  whom  it  was  his 
especial  and  self-imposed  mission  to  slay  or  entrap,  and  he  grew 
morbidly  desirous  of  striking  a  blow  that  had  vengeance  in  it. 
As  an  instrument  he  selected  a  detective  named  Lull,  said  to  be 
cool,  skillful,  vigilant,  and  desperate.  He  had  need  to  be!  He 


458  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OS 

came  down  into  St.  Glair,  with  another  detective,  and  recruited 
at  Osceola  the  deputy  sheriff  of  the  county,  a  young  man  named 
Daniels.  These  three  began  to  hunt  the  Youngers,  just  as  any 
lot  of  trappers  might  begin  to  hunt  a  pack  of  wolves.  It  is  not 
believed  that  they  had  any  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  either  of 
the  brothers.  Only  vague  rumor  or  sensational  journalism 
had  connected  them  in  any  manner  with  bank  or  railroud  rob- 
beries. The  people  among  whom  they  lived  believed  in  their 
innocence  and  had  borne  testimony  to  it  several  times  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  carry  with  their  defence  the  convincing  evidence 
of  its  truth.  Nevertheless,  according  to  the  theory  of  Pinkerton 
and  Pinkerton's  paid  assassins,  they  were  to  be  shot  down  as  so 
many  horses  with  the  glanders  or  so  many  dogs  with  the  hydro- 
phobia. Lull  began  his  hunt  with  a  bravado  and  ended  it  with 
a  bullet.  He  found  John  and  James  Younger,  or,  rather,  John 
and  James  Younger  found  him.  As  Cole  had  done  with  the 
first  party  of  hunters,  so  would  James  and  John  do  with  the 
second.  They  covered  Lull's  party  with  their  shot-guns  and 
called  out  to  them  to  surrender.  The  desperate  Lull,  picked 
man  as  he  was  and  chosen  pre-eminently  above  a  host  of  men, 
did  surrender  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  He  threw  his  own 
revolver  upon  the  ground.  He  caused  Daniels  also  to  throw 
down  a  pair.  He  made  the  other  detective  give  up  his,  and 
then  when  he  had  succeeded  perfectly  in  disarming  his  compan- 
ions, and  when  because  of  such  disarmament  John  Younger 
lowered  his  own  gun  and  permitted  himself  for  the  first  and  the 
last  time  in  his  history  to  be  taken  unawares — he  drew  a  smaller 
pistol,  which  up  to  this  time  had  been  concealed,  and  shot  the 
unsuspecting  man  through  the  neck,  cutting  the  jugular  vein, 
yet  not  knocking  him  from  the  saddle.  With  the  hand  of  death 
already  clutching  savagely  at  his  own  throat,  and  with  the  blood 
spurting  out  in  great  jets  at  every  heart  beat,  John  Younger 
yet  steadied  himself  by  a  superhuman  effort,  mortally  wounded 
Lull,  killed  Daniels,  and  dashed  at  the  third  detective,  who 
turned  about,  born  coward  that  he  was,  and  fled,  as  the  wind 
flies,  into  Osceola.  When  James  Younger  reached  John  the 
tragedy  was  over  and  the  dauntless  boy  was  dead.  No  more 
infamous  murder  was  ever  committed  in  Missouri  than  this 
killing  of  John  Younger.  He  had  not  even  been  accused  of 
doing  criminal  things.  His  name  had  never  even  been  connected 


THE   WAMFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER 

with  the  name  of  any  railroad  or  bank  robbery.  He  was  a  peace- 
ful man,  living  in  the  midst  of  a  peaceful  community,  respected 
by  his  neighbors,  trusted  by  men  of  business,  honest,  energetic 
and  enterprising.  He  was  hunted  to  his  death  because  his  name 
was  Younger,  and  because  all  the  guns  in  the  world  and  all  the 
enemies  in  the  world  could  neither  scare  him  nor  drive  him 
away  from  his  own.  In  the  full  flower  of  his  early  manhood, 
his  lonely  and  premature  grave  to-day  in  his  native  State,  cries- 
out  for  vengeance  on  the  head  of  a  civilization  which  permits 
an  irresponsible  and  an  accursed  system  of  legalized  assassina- 
tion to  prey  upon  innocent  people  equally  with  the  guilty,  and 
defy  and  rise  above  the  law  while  professing  to  obey  its  man- 
dates and  keep  clearly  within  the  limits  of  its  just  provisions. 

Other  Guerrillas  did  some  desperate  things  after  the  war,  and 
escaped.  One  of  QuantrelFs  best  scouts,  Jack  Bishop — a  cool, 
desperate,  dauntless,  iron  man,  fell  under  the  ban  of  the  Kansas 
people  and  was  driven  about  from  pillar  to  post  until  he  got 
tired.  His  brother,  another  daring  Guerrilla,  was  waylaid  at  a 
creek-crossing  south  of.Westport  by  some  disbanded  Kansas 
militia,  and  killed.  Jack  determined  to  avenge  him.  With  this 
object  in  view  he  rode  boldly  into  Kansas  City  where  Major 
Ransom,  an  ex-Federal  officer,  was  doing  the  duties  of  a  civil 
office,  and  opened  fire  upon  him  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  saddling 
and  bridling  a  horse.  Ransom  was  a  Kansas  man,  well  known 
to  the  border,  and  Bishop  would  have  killed  him  surely  if  Ransom, 
running  for  his  life,  had  not  taken  refuge  in  a  strong  building. 
As  it  was  he  wounded  him  badly  and  rode  slowly  out  of  town 
and  away  into  the  unknown  of  the  Western  territories. 

The  most  of  the  survivors  of  the  border  war  are  scattered  far 
and  wide.  Oil  Shepherd,  as  has  already  been  stated,  was 
killed  by  a  Jackson  county  vigilance  committee,  fighting  to  the 
death.  George  Shepherd  is  ranching  somewhere  in  the  West. 
Andy  McGuire  was  hung  by  a  mob  at  Richmond,  Ray  county,. 
Missouri,  charged  but  charged  unjustly  with  having  been  en- 
gaged in  the  robbery  of  the  bank  there  and  the  killing  of  three 
of  the  citizens  of  the  town.  Payne  Jones  survived  Quantrell's 
desperate  raid  into  Kentucky,  and  returned  to  Missouri  to  be 
killed  by  Jim  Crow  Chiles.  Later  on  Jim  Crow  Chiles  himself 
was  killed  by  a  citizen  of  Independence.  Dick  Burnes,  another 
of  Quantrell's  most  desperate  men,  went  to  sleep  one  might  in  an 


460  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

orchard  where  there  was  some  straw,  and  when  found  the  next 
morning  he  was  found  with  his  head  cleft  in  twain  as  though 
while  he  slept  some  powerful  assassin  had  cloven  it  with  an  axe. 
John  Jarre  tte  has  a  sheep  ranche' some  where  in  the  wilds  of  Ari- 
zona. Jesse  and  Frank  James  are  outlaws  and  trading  in  cattle 
along  the  lower  Rio  Grande  river,  sometimes  in  Texas  and  some- 
times as  far  in-land  in  old  Mexico  as  Mont  erey.  Fletch  Taylor 
is  a  most  worthy  citizen,  rich,  popular ,  and  universally  re- 
spected. James  Anderson,  William  Anderson's  brother,  was 
cut  to  pieces  in  Texas  in  a  bowie-knife  fight.  Dave  Poole  is  in 
New  Mexico.  William  Greenwood  is  a  prosperous  farmer  in 
northeastern  Missouri.  Dick  Maddox  was  killed  by  a  Cherokee 
Indian  just  after  the  close  of  the  war.  George  Maddox  was 
arrested  arbitrarily  after  the  surrender  for  his  participation  in 
the  Lawrence  Raid,  and  was  confined  a  long  time  in  jail.  He 
escaped,  however,  to  go  back  into  peaceful  life,  and  made  as  good 
a  citizen  as  he  made  a  soldier.  Arch  Clements  was  murdered 
in  Lexington.  Frank  Gregg,  charged  with  the  killing  of  a  citi- 
zen of  Lafayette  county  while  the  war  was  going  on,  was  ar- 
rested in  Independence  and  carried  to  Lexington  for  trial.  Gen. 
Shelby  interposed  in  his  behalf,  and  Frank  Gregg  was  acquitted. 
Tom  Little  was  hung  by  a  vigilance  committee  in  Warrensburg, 
Johnson  county,  one  of  the  most  virulent  and  blood-thirsty  com- 
mittees ever  known  to  the  criminal  annals  of  Western  Missouri. 
Tom  Maupin  tends  his  flocks  and  herds  far  down  in  Texas — 
many  a  long  days'  ride  southward  from  Sherman.  Some  went 
to  Mexico  with  Shelby  in  that  famous  Expedition  of  his  which 
aspired  to  an  empire  and  ended  with  an  exodus — notably  Crock- 
ett, one  of  Anderson's  original  desperadoes,  Joe  Macey,  John 
Thrailkill,  Erasmus  Woods,  William  Yo well,  and  the  noted  Berry 
brothers,  Richard  and  Isaac.  There  is  but  space  to  record 
briefly  some  of  the  deeds  these  Guerrillas  did  in  Mexico. 
Shelby  had  just  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  at  Piedras  Negras,  op- 
posite Eagle  Pass,  in  Texas,  and  had,  after  selling  his  surplus 
arms,  ammunition  and  canaon  to  Governor  Biesca,  of  the  State 
of  Coahuila,  dismissed  his  men  in  the  afternoon  for  a  little  rest 
and  relaxation. 

The  day  had  been  almost  a  tropical  one.  No  air  blew  about 
the  streets,  and  a  white  glare  had  come  over  the  sands  and 
settled  as  a  cloud  upon  the  houses  and  upon  the  water.  The 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  461 

men  scattered  in  every  direction,  careless  of  consequences,  and 
indifferent  as  to  results.  The  cafes  were  full.  Wine  and 
women  abounded.  Beside  the  bronzed  faces  of  the  soldiers 
were  the  tawny  faces  of  the  senoritas.  In  the  passage  of  the 
drinking  horns  the  men  kissed  the  women.  Great  American 
oaths  came  out  from  the  tiendas,  harsh  at  times,  and  resonant 
at  times.  Even  in  their  wickedness  they  were  national. 

A  tragedy  was  making  head,  however,  in  spite  of  the  white 
glare  of  the  sun,  and  the  fervid  kisses  under  the  rose.  The 
three  men,  soldiers  of  Lee's  army  ostensibly — men  who  had 
been  fed  and  sheltered — were  tempting  providence  be}^ond  the 
prudent  point.  They  had  joined  the  expedition  some  distance 
back,  and  were  lavishly  provided  for  because  it  was  supposed 
they  had  once  belonged  to  the  army  of  Northern  Virginia. 
Having  the  heart  each  of  a  sheep,  they  were  dealing  with  lions. 
To  their  treachery  they  were  about  to  add  bravado — to  the 
magazine  they  were  about  to  apply  the  torch.  There  is  a 
universal  Mexican  law  which  makes  a  brand  a  bible.  From  it8 
truth  there  is  no  appeal.  Every  horse  in  the  country  is 
branded,  and  every  brand  is  entered  of  record,  just  as  a  deed 
or  legal  conveyance.  Some  of  these  brands  are  intricate,  some 
unique,  some  a  single  letter  of  the  alphabet,  but  all  legal 
and  lawful  brands  just  the  same,  and  good  to  pass  muster  any- 
where, so  only  there  are  alcaldes  and  sandaled  soldiers  about. 
Their  logic  is  extremely  simple  too.  You  prove  the  brand  and 
you  take  the  horse,  no  matter  who  rides  him,  nor  how  great  the 
need  for  whip  or  spur.  In  Shelby's  command  there  were  a 
dozen  magnificent  horses,  fit  for  a  king's  race,  who  wore  a 
brand  of  an  unusual  fashion — many-lined  and  intricate  as  a 
column  of  Arabesque.  They  had  been  obtained  somewhere  above 
San  Antonio,  and  had  been  dealt  with  as  only  cavalry  soldiers 
know  how  to  deal  with  their  horses.  These  the  three  men 
wanted — these  three  men  ostensibly  from  Lee's  army.  With 
their  knowledge  of  Spanish  they  had  gone  among  the  Mexican 
soldiers,  poisoning  their  minds  with  tales  of  American  rapine- 
and  slaughter,  depicting,  with  not  a  little  of  attractive  rhetoric, 
the  long  and  weary  march  they  had  made  with  these  marauders, 
that  their  beloved  steeds  might  not  be  taken  entirely  away  from 
them. 

The  Mexicans  listened,  not  from  generosity,  but  from  greed, 


462  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OH 

and  swore  a  great  oath  by  the  Virgin  that  the  gringos  should 
•deliver  up  every  branded  horse  across  the  Rio  Grande.  Ike 
and  Dick  Berry  rode  each  a  branded  horse,  and  so  did  John 
Rudd,  Yowell  and  two  other  Guerrillas  equally  fearless,  and 
•equally  ignorant  of  any  other  law  besides  the  law  of  possession. 
The  afternoon  drill  was  over.  The  hot  glare  was  still  upon  the 
earth  and  the  sky.  If  anything  the  noise  from  the  cafes  came 
louder  and  merrier.  Where  the  musical  voices  were  the  sweet- 
est, were  the  places  where  the  women  abounded  with  disheveled 
hair,  and  eyes  of  tropical  dusk. 

Ike  Berry  had  ridden  one  of  these  branded  horses  into  the 
street  running  by  regimental  headquarters,  and  sat  with  one 
leg  crossed  upon  the  saddle,  lazily  smoking.  He  was  a  low, 
equat  Hercules,  free  of  speech  and  frank  of  nature.  In  battle 
he  always  laughed ;  only  when  eating  was  he  serious.  What 
reverence  he  had  came  from  the  appetite.  The  crumbs  that  fell 
from  his  long,  yellow  beard  were  his  bendiction. 

Other  branded  horses  were  hitched  about,  easy  of  access  and 
unnoted  of  owner.  The  three  men  came  into  the  street,  behind 
them  a  young  Mexican  Captain,  handsome  as  Adonis.  This 
Captain  led  thirty-five  soldiers  with  eyes  to  the  front  and  guns 
at  a  trail.  Jim  Wood  lounged  to  the  door  of  a  cafe  and 
remarked  them  as  they  filed  by.  As  he  returned,  he  spoke  to 
Martin  Kritzer,  toying  with  an  Indian  girl,  beaded  and  beauti- 
ful: "They  are  in  skirmishing  order.  Old  Joe  has  delivered 
the  arms ;  it  may  be  that  we  shall  take  them  back  again." 

One  of  the  men  went  straight  up  to  Ike  Berry  as  he  sat  cross- 
legged  upon  his  horse,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  horse's  bridle. 

Ike  knew  him  and  spoke  to  him  cheerily: 

"How  now,  comrade!" 

Short  answer,  and  curt: 

"This  is  my  horse  ;  he  wears  my  brand ;  I  have  followed  him 
to  Mexico.  Dismount!" 

A  long  white  wreath  of  smoke  curled  up  from  Ike's  meer- 
schaum in  surprise.  Even  the  pipe  entered  a  protest.  The  old 
battle  smile  came  back  to  his  face,  and  those  who  were  nearest 
and  knew  him  best,  knew  that  a  dead  man  would  soon  la}^  upon 
the  street.  He  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  musingly ;  he 
put  the  disengaged  foot  back  gently  in  the  stirrup ;  he  rose  up 
all  of  a  sudden  the  very  incarnation  of  murder;  there  was  a 


THE  WAMFABE  OF  THE  BOEDER  468 

white  gleam  in  the  air ;  a  heavy  sabre  that  lifted  itself  up  and 
circled,  and  when  it  fell  a  stalwart  arm  was  shredded  away,  as  a 
girl  might  sever  a  silken  chain  cr  the  tendrils  of  a  vine.  The 
ghastly  stump,  not  over  four  inches  from  the  shoulder,  spouted 
blood  at  every  throb.  The  man  fell  as  one  paralyzed.  A  shout 
arose.  The  Mexicans  spread  out  like  a  fan,  and  when  the  fan 
closed  it  had  surrounded  Berry  and  his  comrades.  Yowell 
alone  broke  through  the  cordon  and  rushed  to  Shelby. 

Shelby  was  sitting  in  a  saloon  discussing  cognac  and  Catalan 
with  an  Englishman.  A  glance  convinced  Shelby  that  Yowell 
was  in  trouble. 

4 'What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"They  are  after  the  horses.'' 

"What  horses?" 

"The  branded  horses;  those  obtained  from  the  Rosser 
ranche." 

"Ah!  and  after  we  have  delivered  the  arms,  too.  Mexican- 
like,  Mexican-like!" 

He  arose  as  he  spoke  and  looked  out  on  the  street.  Some 
revolvers  were  being  fired.  These,  in  the  white  heat  of  the 
afternoon,  sounded  as  the  tapping  of  wood-peckers.  Afterwards 
a  steady  roar  of  rifles  told  how  the  battle  went. 

"The  rally!  the  rally! — sound  the  rally!"  Shelby  cried  to 
his  bugler,  as  he  dashed  down  to  where  the  Mexicans  were 
swarming  about  Berry  and  the  few  men  nearest  to  him.  "  We 
have  eaten  of  their  salt,  and  they  have  betrayed  us ;  we  have 
come  to  them  as  friends,  and  they  would  strip  us  like  barba- 
rians. It  is  war  again — war  to  the  knife  !" 

At  this  moment  the  wild,  piercing  notes  of  an  American  bugle 
were  heard,  clear,  penetrating,  defiant — notes  that  told  of  sore 
stress  among  comrades,  and  pressing  need  of  succor. 

The  laughter  died  in  the  cafes  as  a  night  wind  when  the  morn- 
ing comes.  The  bugle  sobered  all  who  were  drunk  with  drink 
or  dalliance.  Its  voice  told  of  danger  near  and  imminent — of  a 
field-meeting  of  harvesters  who  were  not  afraid  to  die. 

The  men  swarmed  out  of  every  doorway — poured  from  under 
every  portal — flushed,  furious,  ravenous  for  blood. 

They  saw  the  Mexicans  in  the  square,  the  peril  of  Berry 
and  those  nearest  to  him,  and  they  asked  no  further  questions. 
A  sudden  crash  of  revolvers  came  first,  close  and  deadly ;  a  yell, 


464  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

a  shout,  and  then  a  fierce,  hot  charge.  Has  Woods,  another 
Guerrilla,  with  a  short  Enfield  rifle  in  his  hand,  stood  fair  in  the 
street  looking  up  at  the  young  Mexican  Captain  with  his  cold 
gray  eyes  that  had  in  them  never  a  light  of  pity.  As  the  press 
gathered  about  him,  the  rifle  crept  straight  to  the  front  and 
rested  there  a  moment,  fixed  as  fate.  It  looked  as  if  he  was 
aiming  at  a  flower — the  dark  olive  beauty  of  the  Spaniard  was 
so  superb. 

"Spare  him!"  shouted  a  dozen  reckless  soldiers  in  a  breath, 
"he  is  too  young  and  too  handsome  to  die."     In  vain!     A 
sharp,  sudden  ring  was  the  response;  the  Captain  tossed   his- 
arms  high  in  the  air,  leaped  up  suddenly  as  if  to  catch  some- 
thing above  his  head,  and  fell  forward  upon   his  face,  a  corpse. 
A  wail  of  women  arose  upon  the  sultry  evening  — such  as  may 
have  been  heard  in  David's  household  when  back  from  the  tan- 
gled brushwood  they  brought  the  beautiful  Absalom, 
"  The  life  upon  his  yellow  hair, 
But  not  within  his  eyes.'* 

The  work  that  followed  was  quick  enough  and  deadly  enough 
to  appal  the  stoutest.  Seventeen  Mexicans  were  killed,  includ- 
ing the  Captain,  together  with  the  two  Americans  who  had 
caused  the  encounter.  The  third,  strange  to  say,  recovered 
from  his  ghastly  wound,  and  can  tell  to  this  day,  if  he  still  lives, 
of  the  terrible  prowess  of  that  American  soldier  who  shredded 
his  arm  away  as  a  scythe  blade  might  a  handful  of  summer 
wheat. 

There  were  Guerrillas  also  in  Mexico,  native  Mexican  Guer- 
rillas, who  fought  the  French,  robbed  the  rich,  preyed  upon  the 
passers  by,  and  hovered  about  Shelby's  column  as  it  marched 
on  boldly  into  the  South.  He  forbade  his  men  to  fight  with 
them.  He  could  not  take  the  time,  he  said,  to  brush  away  gad- 
flies and  have  to  do  every  day  with  mosquitoes.  He  would  guard 
his  camp  against  them  at  night,  and  carefully  shelter  his  stock 
from  their  stealthy  approaches,  but  for  some  several  day's 
march  this  was  all.  These  Guerrillas,  however,  became  embold- 
ened in  the  face  of  such  tactics.  On  the  trail  of  a  timid  or 
wounded  thing  they  were  veritable  wolves.  This  long  gallop 
could  never  tire.  In  the  night  they  were  superb.  Upon  the 
flanks,  in  the  front  or  rear,  it  was  one  eternal  ambush — one 
incessant  rattle  of  musketry  which  harmed  nothing,  but  which 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  465 

yet  annoyed,  like  the  singing  of  misquitoes.  At  last  they 
brought  about  a  swift  reckoning — one  of  those  sudden  things 
which  leave  little  behind  save  a  trail  of  blood  and  a  moment  of 
savage  killing. 

The  column  had  reached  to  within  two  days'  journey  of 
Lampasas.  Some  spurs  of  tke  mountain  ran  down  to  the  road, 
and  some  clusters  of  palm  trees  grouped  themselves  at  intervals 
by  the  wayside.  The  palm  is  a  pensive  tree,  having  a  voice 
in  the  wind  that  is  sadder  than  the  pine — a  sober,  solemn  voice, 
like  the  sound  of  ruffled  cerements  when  the  corpse  is  given  to 
the  coffin.  Even  in  the  sunlight  they  are  dark ;  even  in  the 
tropics  no  vine  clings  to  them,  no  blosom  is  born  to  them,  no 
bird  is  housed  by  them,  and  no  flutter  of  wings  makes  music  for 
them.  Strange  and  shapely,  and  coldly  chaste,  they  seem  like 
human  and  desolate  things,  standing  all  alone  in  the  midst  of 
luxurious  nature,  unblessed  of  the  soil,  and  unloved  of  the  dew 
and  the  sunshine. 

In  a  grove  of  these  the  column  halted  for  the  night.  Beyond 
them  was  a  pass  guarded  by  crosses.  In  that  treacherous  land 
these  are  a  growth  indigenous  to  the  soil.  They  flourish 
nowhere  else  in  such  abundance.  Wherever  a  deed  of  violence 
is  done,  a  cross  is  planted ;  wherever  a  traveler  is  left  upon  his 
face  in  a  pool  of  blood,  a  cross  is  reared ;  wherever  a  grave  is 
made  wherein  lies  the  murdered  one,  there  is  seen  a  cross.  No 
matter  who  does  the  deed — whether  Indian,  or  Don,  or  Com- 
mandante,  a  cross  must  mark  the  spot,  and  as  the  pious  way- 
farer journeys  by  he  lays  on  all  reverently  a  stone  at  the  feet  of 
the  sacred  symbol,  breathing  a  pious  prayer  and  telling  a  bead 
or  two  for  the  soul's  salvation. 

On  the  left  a  wooded  bluff  ran  down  abruptly  to  a  stream. 
Beyond  the  stream  and  near  the  palms,  a  grassy  bottom  spread 
itself  out,  soft  and  grateful.  Here  the  blankets  were  spread, 
and  here  the  horses  grazed  their  fill.  A  young  moon,  clear  and 
white,  hung  low  in  the  West,  neither  sullen  nor  red,  but  a  ten- 
der moon,  full  of  the  beams  that  lovers  seek,  and  full 
of  the  voiceless  imagery  which  gives  passion  to  the 
song  of  the  night,  and  pathos  to  deserted  and  dejected 
swains.  As  the  moon  set  the  horses  were  gathered  together 
and  tethered  in  amid  the  palms.  Then  a  deep  silence  fell  upon 
the  camp,  for  the  sentinels  were  beyond  its  confines,  and  all 
30 


466  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OH 

withinside  slept  the  sleep  of  the  tired  ancl  the  healthy.  It 
may  have  been  midnight;  it  certainly  was  cold  and  dark. 
The  fires  had  gone  out,  and  there  was  a  white  mist  like  a  shroud 
creeping  up  the  stream  and  settling  upon  the  faces  of  the 
sleepers.  On  the  far  right  a  single  pistol  shot  arose,  clear  and 
resonant.  Shelby,  who  slumbered  like  a  night  bird,  lifted  him- 
self up  from  his  blankets  and  spoke  in  an  undertone  to 
Thrailkill: 

"Who  has  the  post  at  the  mouth  of  the  pass?" 

"Joe  Macey." 

"Then  something  is  stirring.  Macy  never  fired  at  a  shadow 
in  his  life." 

The  two  men  listened.  One  a  grim  Guerrilla  himself  with  the 
physique  of  a  Cossack  and  the  hearing  of  a  Comanche.  The 
other  having  in  his  hands  the  lives  of  all  the  silent  and  inert 
sleepers  lying  still  and  grotesque  under  the  white  shroud  of  the 
mountain  mist.  Nothing  was  heard  for  an  hour.  The  two  men 
went  to  sleep  again,  but  not  to  dream.  Of  a  sudden  and  unseen 
the  mist  was  lifted,  and  in  its  place  a  sheet  of  flame  so  near  to 
the  faces  of  the  men  that  it  might  have  scorched  them.  Two 
hundred  Mexicans  had  crept  down  the  mountain,  and  to  the 
edge  of  the  stream,  and  had  fired  point-blank  into  the  camp. 
It  seemed  a  miracle,  but  not  a  man  was  touched.  Lying  flat 
upon  the  ground  and  wrapped  up  in  their  blankets,  the  whole 
volley,  meant  to  be  murderous,  had  swept  over  them. 

Shelby  was  the  first  upon  his  feet.  His  voice  rang  out  clear 
and  faultless,  and  without  a  tremor: 

"Give  them  the  revolver — Charge!" 

Men  awakened  from  deep  sleep  grapple  with  spectres  slowly. 
These  Mexicans  were  spectres.  Beyond  the  stream  and  in 
amid  the  sombre  shadows  of  the  palms,  they  were  invisible. 
Only  the  powder-pall  was  on  the  water  where  the  mist  had  been. 

Unclad,  barefooted,  heavy  with  sleep,  the  men  went  straight 
for  the  mountain,  a  revolver  in  each  hand,  Shelby  leading. 
From  spectres  the  Mexicans  had  become  to  be  bandits.  No 
quarter  was  given  or  asked.  The  rush  lasted  until  the  game 
was  flushed,  the  pursuit  until  the  top  of  the  mountain  was  gained. 
Over  ragged  rocks  and  cactus  and  dagger  trees  the  hurricane 
poured.  The  roar  of  the  revolvers  was  deafening.  Men  died 
aud  made  no  moan,  and  the  wounded  were  recognized  only  by 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  467 

their  voices.  When  it  was  over  the  Americans  had  lost  in  killed 
eleven  and  in  wounded  seventeen,  most  of  the  latter  slightly, 
thanks  to  the  darkness  and  the  impetuosity  of  the  attack.  In 
crawling  upon  the  camp,  the  Mexicans  had  tethered  their  horses 
upon  the  further  side  of  the  mountain.  The  most  of  these  fell 
into  Shelby's  hands,  together  with  the  bodies  of  the  two  leaders, 
Juan  Anselmo,  a  renegade  priest,  and  Antonio  Flores,  a  young 
Cuban  who  had  sold  his  sister  to  a  wealthy  haciendaro  and  turned 
robber,  and  sixty-nine  of  their  followers. 

It  was  noon  the  next  day  before  the  march  was  resumed — 
noon  with  the  sun  shining  upon  the  fresh  graves  of  eleven  daunt- 
less Americans  sleeping  their  last  sleep,  amid  the  palms  and  the 
crosses,  until  the  resurrection  day. 

There  was  a  grand  fandango  at  Lamp  asas  when  the  column 
reached  the  city.  The  bronzed,  foreign  faces  of  the  strangers 
attracted  much  of  curiosity  and  more  of  comment ;  but  no  notes 
in  the  music  jarred,  no  halt  in  the  flying  feet  of  the  dancers 
could  be  discovered. 

Shelby  camped  just  beyond  the  suburbs,  unwilling  to  trust 
his  men  to  the  blandishments  of  so  much  beauty,  and  to  the 
perils  of  so  much  nakedness. 

Stern  camp  guards  soon  sentineled  the  soldiers,  but  as  the 
night  deepened  their  devices  increased,  until  a  good  company 
had  escaped  all  vigilance  and  made  a  refuge  sure  with  the  sweet 
and  swarthy  senoritas,  singing : 

O  ven  amal 
Eres  alma, 
Say  corazon. 

There  were  three  men  who  stole  out  together  in  mere  wanton- 
ness and  exuberance  of  life — obedient  soldierymen — who  were 
to  bring  ba  -k  with  them  a  tragedy  without  a  counterpart  in  all 
their  histoiy.  None  saw  Boswell,  Walker,  and  Crockett,  three 
of  Quantrell's  and  Anderson's  old  Guerrillas,  depart — the  whole 
command  saw  them  return  again,  Boswell  slashed  from  chin  to 
waist,  Walker  almost  dumb  from  a  bullet  through  cheeks  and 
tongne,  and  Crockett,  sober  and  unhurt,  yet  having  over  him 
the  sombre  light  of  as  wild  a  deed  as  any  that  stands  out  from 
all  the  lawless  past  of  that  lawless  band. 

These  men,  when  reaching  Lampasas,  floated  into  the  flood- 
tide  of  the  fandango,  and  danced  until  the  red  lights  shone  with 


468  NOTED  GUEKKILLAS,  OB 

unnatural  brilliancy — until  the  fiery  catalon  consumed  what  little 
of  discretion  the  dancing  had  left.  They  sallied  out  late  at 
night,  flushed  with  drink,  and  having  over  them  the  glamour  of 
enchanting  women.  They  walked  on  apace  in  the  direction  of 
the  camp,  singing  snatches  of  Bacchanal  songs,  and  laughing 
boisterously  under  the  moonlight,  which  flooded  all  the  streets- 
with  gold.  In  the  doorway  of  a  house  a  young  Mexican  girl 
stood,  her  dark  face  looking  out  coquettishly  from  its  fringe  of 
dark  hair.  The  men  spoke  to  her,  and  she,  in  her  simple 
fashion,  spoke  to  the  men.  In  Mexico  this  meant  nothing. 
They  halted,  however,  and  Crockett  advanced  from  the  rest  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  Around  her  head  and 
shoulders  she  wore  a  sebosa.  This  garment  answers  at  the  same 
time  for  bonnet  and  bodice.  When  removed  the  head  is  uncov- 
ered and  the  bosom  is  exposed.  Crockett  meant  no  real  harm, 
although  he  asked  her  for  a  kiss.  Before  she  had  replied  to 
him,  he  attempted  to  take  it.  The  hot  Southern  blood  flared  up 
all  of  a  sudden  at  this,  and  her  dark  eyes  grew  furious  in  a 
moment.  As  she  drew  back  from  him  in  proud  scorn,  the  sebosa 
came  off,  leaving  all  her  bosom  bare,  the  long,  luxurious  hair 
falling  down  upon  and  over  it  as  a  cloud  that  would  hide  its 
purity  and  innocence. 

Then  she  uttered  a  low,  feminine  cry  as  a  signal,  followed 
instantly  by  a  rush  of  men  who  drew  knives  and  pistols  as  they 
came  on.  The  Americans  had  no  weapons. 

Not  dreaming  of  danger,  and  being  within  sight  almost  of  camp, 
they  had  left  their  revolvers  behind.  Boswell  was  stabbed  three 
times,  though  not  seriously,  for  he  was  a  powerful  man,  and 
fought  his  assailants  off.  Walker  was  shot  through  his  tongue 
and  both  cheeks,  and  Crockett,  the  cause  of  the  whole  melee, 
escaped  unhurt.  No  pursuit  was  attempted  after  the  first  swift 
work  was  over.  Wary  of  reprisals,  the  Mexicans  hid  themselves 
as  suddenly  as  they  had  sallied  out.  There  was  a  young  man, 
however,  who  walked  close  to  Crockett — a  young  Mexican  who 
spoke  no  word,  and  who  yet  kept  pace  with  the  American,  step 
by  step.  At  first  he  was  not  noticed.  Before  the  camp  guards 
were  reached,  Crockett,  now  completely  sobered,  turned  upon 
him  and  asked : 

"Why  do  you  follow  me?" 

"That  you  may  lead  me  to  your  General.'* 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  469 

"What  do  you  want  with  my  General?" 

"Satisfaction." 

At  the  firing  in  the  city  a  patrol  guard  had  been  thrown  out 
who  arrested  the  whole  party  and  carried  it  straight  to  Shelby. 
He  was  encamped  upon  a  wide  margin  of  bottom  land,  having  a 
river  upon  one  side,  and  some  low  mountain  ridges  upon  the  other. 
The  ground  where  the  blankets  were  spread  was  velvety  with  grass. 
There  was  a  bright  moon ;  the  air,  blowing  from  the  grape  gar- 
dens and  the  apricot  orchards  of  Lampasas,  was  fragrant  and 
delicious,  and  the  soldiers  were  not  sleeping.  Under  the  solace 
of  such  surroundings  Shelby  had  relaxed  a  little  of  that  grim 
severity  he  always  manifested  toward  those  guilty  of  unsoldierly 
conduct,  and  spoke  not  harshly  to  the  three  men.  When  made 
acquainted  with  their  hurts  he  dismissed  them  instantly  to  the 
care  of  Dr.  Tisdale.  Crockett  and  the  Mexican  still  lingered, 
and  a  crowd  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  had  gathered  around.  The  first 
told  his  story  of  the  melee,  and  told  it  truthfully.  The  man  was 
too  brave  to  lie.  As  an  Indian  listening  to  the  approaching 
footsteps  of  one  whom  he  intends  to  scalp,  the  young  Mexican 
listened  as  a  granite  pillar  vitalized  to  the  whole  recital.  When 
it  was  finished  he  went  up  close  to  Shelby  and  said  to  him, 
pointing  his  finger  at  Crockett:  "That  man  has  outraged  my 
sister.  I  could  have  killed  him,  but  I  did  not.  You  Americans 
are  brave,  I  know ;  will  you  be  generous  as  well,  and  give  me 
satisfaction?" 

Shelby  looked  at  Crockett,  whose  bronzed  face,  made  sterner 
in  the  moonlight,  had  upon  it  a  look  of  curiosity.  He  at  least 
did  not  understand  what  was  coming.  "Does  the  Mexican 
speak  the  truth,  Crockett?"  was  the  question  asked  by  the  com- 
mander of  his  soldier. 

"Partly  ;  but  I  meant  no  harm  to  the  woman.  I  am  incapable 
of  that.  Drunk,  I  know  I  was,  and  reckless,  but  not  willfully 
guilty,  General." 

Shelby  regarded  him  coldly.  His  voice  was  so  stern  when  he 
spoke  again  that  the  brave  soldier  hung  his  head : 

"What  business  had  you  to  lay  your  hands  upon  her  at  all? 
How  often  must  I  repeat  to  you  that  the  man  who  does  these 
things  is  no  follower  of  mine  ?  Will  you  give  her  brother  sat- 
isfaction?" 

He  drew  his  revolver  almost  joyfully  and  stood  proudly  up, 


470  NOTED  GUEKKILLAS,  OH 

facing  his  accuser.  "No!  no!  not  the  pistol!"  cried  the  Mex- 
ican; "I  do  not  understand  the  pistol.  The  knife,  Senor 
General;  is  the  American  afraid  of  the  knife?" 

He  displayed  as  he  spoke  a  keen,  glittering  knife,  and  held  it 
up  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  white,  and  lithe,  and  shone  in  con- 
trast with  the  dusky  hand  which  grasped  it. 

Not  a  muscle  of  Crockett's  face  moved.  He  spoke  almost 
gently  as  he  turned  to  his  General : 

"The  knife,  oh!  well,  so  be  it.  Will  some  of  you  give  me 
a  knife?" 

A  knife  was  handed  to  him  and  a  ring  was  made.  About 
four  hundred  soldiers  formed  the  outside  circle  of  this  ring. 
These,  bearing  torches  in  their  hands,  cast  a  red  glare  of  light 
upon  the  arena,  already  flooded  with  the  softer  beaming  of  the 
moon.  The  ground  under  foot  was  as  velvet.  The  moon  not 
yet  full,  and  the  sky  without  a  cloud,  rose  over  all,  calm  and 
peaceful  in  the  summer  night.  A  hush  as  of  expectancy  fell 
upon  the  camp.  Those  who  were  asleep  slept  on ;  those  who- 
were  awake  seemed  as  under  the  influence  of  an  intangible 
dream.  Shelby  did  not  forbid  the  fight.  He  knew  it  was  & 
duel  to  the  death,  and  some  of  the  desperate  spirit  of  the 
combatants  passed  into  his  own.  He  merely  spoke  to  an  aide : 

"Go  for  Tisdale.  When  the  steel  has  finished,  the  surgeon 
may  begin." 

Both  men  stepped  fearlessly  into  the  arena.  A  third  form 
was  there,  unseen,  invisible,  and  even  in  his  presence  the  traits 
of  the  two  nations  were  uppermost.  The  Mexican  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  the  American  tightened  his  sabre  belt.  Both 
may  have  prayed,  neither,  however,  audibly. 

They  had  no  seconds — perhaps  none  were  needed.  The  Mex- 
ican took  his  stand  about  midway  of  the  arena,  and  waited. 
Crockett  grasped  his  knife  firmly  and  advanced  upon  him.  Of 
the  two,  he  was  taller  by  a  head  and  physically  the  strongest. 
Constant  familiarity  with  danger  for  four  years  had  given  him  a 
confidence  the  Mexican  may  not  have  felt.  He  had  been 
wounded  three  times,  one  of  which  wounds  was  scarcely  healed 
This  took  none  of  his  manhood  from  him,  however. 

Neither  spoke.  The  torches  flared  a  little  in  the  night  wind,, 
now  beginning  to  rise,  and  the  long  grass  rustled  curtly  under 
foot.  Afterwards  its  green  had  become  crimson. 


THE  WAEFAEE  OF  THE  BOEDER  471 

Between  them  some  twelve  inches  of  space  now  intervened. 
The  men  had  fallen  back  upon  the  right  and  the  le  ft  for  their 
commander  to  see,  and  he  stood  looking  fixedly  at  the  two  as  he 
would  upon  a  line  of  battle.  Never  before  had  he  gazed  upon 
so  strange  a  sight.  That  great  circle  of  bronzed  faces,  eager 
and  fierce  in  the  flare  of  torches,  had  something  monstrous  yet 
grotesque  about  it.  The  civilization  of  the  century  had  been 
rolled  back,  and  they  were  in  a  Roman  circus,  looking  down 
upon  the  arena,  crowded  with  gladiators  and  jubilant  with  that 
strangest  of  war-cries :  Moritusite  salutant ! 

The  attack  was  as  the  lightning's  flash.  The  Mexican  lowered 
his  head,  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  struck  fairly  at  Crockett's 
breast.  The  American  made  a  half-face  to  the  right,  threw 
his  left  arm  forward  as  a  shield,  gathered  the  deadly  steel  in 
his  shoulder  to  the  hilt  and  struck  home.  How  pitiful !  A  great 
stream  of  blood  spurted  in  his  face.  The  tense  form  of  the 
Mexican  bent  as  a  willow  wand  in  the  wind,  swayed  helplessly, 
and  fell  backward  lifeless,  the  knife  rising  up  as  a  terrible 
protest  above  the  corpse.  The  man's  heart  was  found. 

Cover  him  up  from  sight!  No  need  of  Dr.  Tisdale  here. 
There  was  a  wail  of  women  on  the  still  night  air,  a  shudder  of 
regret  among  the  soldiers,  a  dead  man  on  the  grass,  a  sister 
broken-hearted  and  alone  foreverinore,  and  a  freed  spirit  some- 
where out  in  eternity  with  the  unknown  and  the  infinite. 

Crockett  was  afterwards  killed  in  a  desperate  night  attack 
upon  a  hacienda,  but  before  .  this  attack  was  made  it 
was  John  Thrailkill's  turn  to  come  upon  the  scene  in  the 
strangest  guise,  perhaps,  ever  yet  known  to  Guerrilla. 

Maybe  Fate  rests  its  head  upon  its  two  hands  at  times,  and 
thinks  of  what  little  things  it  shall  employ  to  make  or  mar  the 
character — save  or  lose  a  life — banish  beyond  the  light  or  enter 
into  and  possess  forevermore  a  Paradise. 

The  march  was  running  by  meadow  and  by  river,  and  the 
swelling  of  billowy  wheat,  and  great  groves  of  orange  trees 
wherein  the  sunshine  hid  itself  at  noon  with  the  breeze  and  the 
mocking  birds.  It  was  far  into  the  evening  that  J6hn  Thrail- 
kill  sat  by  the  fire  of  his  mess,  smoking  and  telling  brave  stories 
of  the  brave  days  that  were  dead.  Others  were  grouped  about 
in  dreaming  indolence  or  silent  fancy — thinking,  it  may  be,  of 
the  northern  land  with  its  pines  and  firs — of  great  rolling  waves 


472  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OS 

of  prairie  and  plain,  of  forests  where  cabiiis  were  and  white- 
haired  children  all  at  play. 

Thrailkill  was  a  Guerrilla  who  never  slept— that  is  to  say,  who 
never  knew  the  length  or  breadth  of  a  bed  from  Sumpter  to 
Appomattox.  Some  women  in  Platte  county  had  made  him  a 
little  black  flag,  under  which  he  fought.  This,  worked  into  the 
crown  of  his  hat,  satisfied  him  with  his  loyalty  to  his  lady-love. 
In  addition  to  all  this,  he  was  one  among  the  best  pistol  shots  in 
a  command  where  all  were  excellent. 

Perhaps  neither  before  nor  since  the  circumstance  here  re- 
lated, has  anything  so  quaint  in  recklessness  or  bravado  been 
recorded  this  side  the  Crusades.  Thrailkill  talked  much,  but 
then  he  had  fought  much,  and  fighting  men  love  to  talk  now  and 
then.  Some  border  story  of  broil  or  battle,  wherein,  at  desper- 
ate odds,  he  had  done  a  desperate  deed,  came  uppermost  as  the 
night  deepened,  and  the  quaint  and  scarred  Guerrilla  was  over- 
generous  in  the  share  he  took  of  the  killing  and  the  plunder. 

A  comrade  by  his  side — Anthony  West — doubted  the  story 
and  ridiculed  its  narration.  Thrailkill  was  not  swift  to  anger 
for  one  SD  thoroughly  reckless,  but  on  this  night  he  arose,  every 
hair  on  his  bushy  beard  bristling. 

"You  disbelieve  me,  it  seems,"  he  said,  bending  over  the 
other  until  he  could  look  into  his  eyes,  "and  for  the  skeptic 
there  is  only  the  logic  of  a  blow.  Is  this  real,  and  this?"  and 
Thrailkill  smote  West  twice  in  the  face  with  his  open  hand,  once 
on  either  cheek.  No  insult  could  be  more  studied,  open  and 
unpardonable. 

Comrades  interfered  instantly,  or  there  would  have  been  blood- 
shed in  the  heart  of  the  camp  and  by  the  flames  of  the  bivouac 
fire.  Each  was  very  cool — each  knew  what  the  morning  would 
bring  forth,  without  a  miracle. 

The  camp  was  within  easy  reach  of  a  town  that  was  more  of 
a  village  than  a  town.  It  had  a  church  and  a  priest,  and  a 
regular  Don  of  an  Alcalde  who  owned  leagues  of  arable  land, 
and  two  hundred  game  cocks  besides.  For  Shelby's  especial 
amusement  *a  huge  main  was  organized,  and  a  general  invitation 
given  to  all  who  desired  to  attend. 

The  contest  w  as  to  begin  at  noon.  Before  the  sun  had  risen, 
Capt.  James  H.  Gillette  came  to  Thrailkill,  who  was  wrapped  up 
in  his  blankets,  and  said  to  him : 


THE   WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  473 

""I  have  a  message  for  you." 

"It  is  not  long,  I  hope." 

"Not  very  long,  but  very  plain." 

"Yes,  yes,  they  are  all  alike,  I  have  seen  such  before.  Wait 
for  me  a  few  minutes." 

Thrailkill  found  Isaac  Berry,  and  Berry  in  turn  soon  found 
Oillette. 

The  note  was  a  challenge,  brief  and  peremptory.  Some  con- 
ference followed,  and  the  terms  were  agreed  upon.  These  were 
savage  enough  for  an  Indian.  Colt's  pistols,  dragoon  size,  were 
the  weapons,  but  only  one  of  them  was  to  be  loaded.  The 
other,  empty  in  every  chamber,  was  to  be  placed  alongside  the 
loaded  one.  Then  a  blanket  was  to  cover  both,  leaving  the  butt 
of  each  exposed.  He  who  won  the  toss  was  to  make  the  first 
selection,  and  Thrailkill  won.  The  loaded  and  the  unloaded 
pistol  lay  hidden  beneath  a  blanket,  the  two  handles  so  nearly 
alike  that  there  was  no  appreciable  difference.  Thrailkill 
walked  up  to  the  tent,  whistling  a  tune.  West  stood  behind 
him,  watching  with  a  face  that  was  set  as  flint.  The  first  drew, 
cast  his  eyes  along  the  cylinder,  saw  that  it  was  loaded,  and 
smiled.  The  last  drew — every  chamber  was  empty!  Death 
was  his  portion  as  absolutely  and  as  certainly  as  if  death  already 
stood  by  his  side.  Yet  he  made  no  sign  other  than  to  look  up 
to  the  sky.  Was  it  to  be  his  last  look  ? 

The  terms  were  ferocious,  yet  neither  second  had  protested 
against  them.  It  seemed  as  if  one  man  was  to  murder  another 

O 

because  one  had  been  lucky  in  the  toss  of  a  silver  dollar.  As 
the  case  stood,  Thrailkill  had  the  right  to  fire  six  shots  at  West 
before  West  had  the  right  to  grasp  even  so  much  as  a  loaded 
pistol — and  Thrailkill  was  known  for  his  deadly  skill  throughout 
the  ranks  of  the  whole  Expedition. 

The  two  were  to  meet  just  at  sunset,  and  the  great  cock  main 
was  at  noon.  To  this  each  principal  went,  and  each  second,  and 
before  the  main  was  over  the  life  of  a  man  stood  as  absolutely 
upon  the  prowess  of  a  bird  as  the  Spring  and  its  leaves  upon  the 
rain  and  the  sunshine. 

And  thus  it  came  about:  In  Mexico,  cock-fighting  is  a 
national  recreation — perhaps  is  a  national  blessing  as  well. 
Men  engage  in  it  when  they  would  be  robbing  else,  and  way- 
laying convoys  bearing  specie,  and  haunting  the  mountain 


474  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

gorges  until  the  heavy  trains  of  merchandise  entered  slowly  i» 
to  be  swallowed  up. 

The  priests  fight  then,  and  the  fatter  the  padre  the  finer  his- 
chicken.  From  the  prayer-book  to  the  pit  is  an  easy  transition, 
and  no  matter  the  aves  so  only  the  odds  are  in  favor  of  the 
church.  It  is  upon  the  Sundays  that  all  the  pitched  battles 
begin.  After  the  matin  bells,  the  matches.  When  it  is  vespers, 
for  some  there  has  been  a  stricken  and  for  some  a  victorious 
field.  No  matter  again — for  all  there  is  absolution. 

The  Alcalde  of  the  town  of  Linares  was  a  jolly,  good-condi- 
tioned Mexican,  who  knew  a  bit  of  English,  picked  up  in  Cal- 
ifornia, and  who  liked  the  Americans  for  but  two  things — their 
hard  drinking  and  their  hard  swearing.  Finding  any  ignorant 
of  these  accomplishments,  there  flowed  never  any  more  for  them 
a  stream  of  friendship  from  the  Alcalde's  fountain.  It  became 
dry  as  suddenly  as  a  spring  in  the  desert.  Shelby  won  his  heart 
by  sending  him  a  case  of  elegant  cognac — a  present  from  Gen- 
eral Douay — and  therefore  was  the  main  improvised  which  was 
to  begin  at  noon. 

The  pit  was  a  great  circle  in  the  midst  of  a  series  of  seats 
that  arose  the  one  above  the  other.  Over  the  entrance — which 
was  a  gateway  opening  like  the  lids  of  a  book — was  a  chair 
of  state,  an  official  seat  occupied  by  the  Alcalde.  Beside 
him  sat  a  bugler  in  uniform.  At  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
a  battle  this  bugler,  watching  the  gestures  of  the  Alcalde,  blew 
triumphant  or  penitential  strains  accordingly  as  the  Alcalde's 
favorite  lost  or  won.  As  the  main  progressed  the  notes  of  glad- 
ness outnumbered  those  of  sorrow. 

A  born  cavalryman  is  always  suspicious.  He  looks  askance  at 
the  woods,  the  fences,  the  ponds,  the  morning  fogs,  the  road  that 
forks  and  crosses,  and  the  road  that  runs  into  the  rear  of  a  halted 
column,  or  into  either  flank  at  rest  in  bivouac.  It  tries  one's 
nerves  so  to  fumble  at  uncertain  girths  in  the  darkness,  a  rain 
of  bullets  pouring  down  at  the  outposts  and  no  shelter  anywhere 
for  a  long  week's  marching. 

And  never  at  any  time  did  Shelby  put  aught  of  faith  in  Mexi- 
can friendship,  or  aught  of  trust  in  Mexican  welcome  and 
politeness.  His  guard  was  perpetual,  and  his  intercourse,  like 
his  marching,  was  always  in  skirmishing  order.'  Hence  one-half 
the  forces  of  the  Expedition  were  required  to  remain  in  camp 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  475- 

under  arms,  prepared  for  any  emergency,  while  the  other  half, 
free  of  restraint,  could  accept  the  Alcalde's  invitation  or  not  a& 
they  saw  fit.  The  most  of  them  attended.  With  the  crowd 
went  Thrailkill  and  West,  Gillette  and  Berry.  All  the  village 
was  there ;  the  pit  had  no  caste. 

Benevolent  priests  mingled  with  their  congregations  and  bet 
their  pesos  on  their  favorites.  Lords  of  many  herds  and  acres, 
and  mighty  men  of  the  country  round  about,  the  Dons  of  the 
haciendas^  pulled  off  their  hats  to  the  peons  and  staked  their 
gold  against  the  greasy  silver,  palm  to  palm.  Fair  senoritas  shot 
furtive  glances  along  the  ranks  of  the  soldiers — glances  that 
lingered  long  upon  the  Saxon  outline  of  their  faces  and  retreat- 
ed only  when  to  the  light  of  curiosity  there  had  been  added  that 
of  unmistakable  admiration. 

The  bugle  sounded  and  the  betting  began.  The  sport  was 
new  to  many  of  the  spectators — to  a  few  it  was  as  a  sealed 
book.  Twenty-five  cocks  were  matched — all  magnificent  birds, 
not  so  large  as  those  fought  in  America,  but  as  pure  in  game  and 
as  rich  in  plumage.  There,  too,  the  fighting  is  more  deadly ; 
that  is  to  say,  it  is  more  rapid  and  fatal.  The  heels  used  have 
been  almost  thrown  aside  here.  In  the  North  and  West  abso- 
lutely— in  New  Orleans  very  nearly  so.  These  heels,  wrought  ot 
the  most  perfect  steel  and  curved  like  a  scimeter,  have  an  edge 
almost  exquisite  in  its  keenness.  They  cut  asunder  like  a 
sword-blade.  Failing  in  instant  death  they  inflict  mortal 
wounds.  Before  there  is  mutilation  there  is  murder. 

To  the  savage  reality  of  combat  there  was  added  the  atoning 
insincerities  of  music.  These  diverted  the  drama  of  its  premed- 
itation, and  gave  to  it  -an  air  of  surprise  that,  in  the  light  of  aa 
accommodating  conscience,  passed  unchallenged  for  innocence. 
In  Mexico  the  natives  rarely  ask  questions — the  strangers  never. 
Shelby  seated  himself  by  the  side  of  the  Alcalde ;  the  first  five 
or  six  notes  of  a  charge  were  sounded  and  the  battle  began. 
Thereafter  with  varying  fortune  it  ebbed  and  flowed  through  all 
the  long  afternoon.  Aroused  into  instant  championship,  the 
Americans  espoused  the  side  of  this  or  that  bird,  and  lost  or 
won  as  the  fates  decreed.  There  was  but  scant  gold  among 
them,  all  counted,  but  twenty  dollars  or  twenty  thousand,  it 
would  have  been  the  same.  A  nation  of  born  gamblers,  it 
needed  but  a  cock  fight  to  bring  all  the  old  national  traits  upper- 


476  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

most.  A  dozen  or  more  were  on  the  eve  of  wagering  their  car- 
bines and  revolvers,  when  a  sign  from  Shelby  checked  the  unsol- 
dierly  impulse  and  brought  them  back  inst  antly  to  a  realization 
of  duty. 

Thrailkill  had  lost  heavily— that  is  to  say  every  dollar  he 
owned  on  earth.  West  had  won  without  cessation — won  in 
«pite  of  his  judgment,  which  was  often  adverse  to  the  wagers 
laid.  In  this,  maybe,  Fate  was  but  flattering  him.  Of  what 
•use  would  all  his  winnings  be  after  the  sunset? 

It  was  the  eighteenth  battle,  and  a  magnificent  cock  was 
brought  forth  who  had  the  crest  of  an  eagle  and  the  eye  of  a 
basilisk.  More  sonorous  than  the  bugle,  his  voice  had  blended 
war  and  melody  in  it.  The  glossy  ebony  of  his  plumage  needed 
only  the  sunlight  to  make  it  a  mirror  where  courage  might  have 
arrayed  itself.  In  an  instant  he  was  everybody's  favorite — in 
his  favor  all  the  odds  were  laid.  Some  few  clustered  about  his 
antagonist — among  them  a  sturdy  old  priest  who  did  what  he 
could  to  stem  the  tide  rising  in  favor  of  the  bird  of  the  beautiful 
plumage. 

Infatuated  like  the  rest,  Thrailkill  would  have  staked  a  crown 
upon  the  combat ;  he  did  not  have  even  so  much  as  one  real. 
The  man  was  miserable.  Once  he  walked  to  the  door  and 
looked  out.  If  at  that  time  he  had  gone  forth,  the  life  of  West 
would  have  gone  with  him,  but  he  did  not  go.  As  he  returned 
.-he  met  Gillette,  who  spoke  to  him : 

"You  do  not  bet,  and  the  battle  is  about  to  begin." 

"I  do  not  bet  because  I  have  not  won.  The  pitcher  that  goes 
eternally  to  a  well  is  certain  to  be  broken  at  last." 

"And  yet  you  are  fortunate." 

Thrailkill  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  wanted  an  hour  yet  of  the  sunset.  The  tempter  still 
tempted  him. 

"You  have  no  money,  then.     Would  you  like  to  borrow?" 

"No." 

Gillette  mused  awhile.  They  were  tying  on  the  last  blades, 
and  the  old  priest  cried  out : 

"A  doubloon  to  a  doubloon  against  the  black  cock!" 

Thrailkill' s  eyes  glistened.  Gillette  took  him  by  the  arm. 
He  spoke  rapidly,  but  so  low  and  distinct  that  every  word  was  a 
thrust 


THE  WAHFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  477 

"You  do  not  want  to  kill  West.  The  terms  are  murderous — 
you  have  been  soldiers  together — you  can  take  the  priest's  bet 
— here  is  the  money.  But,"  and  he  looked  him  fair  in  the 
face,  "if  you  win  you  pay  me ;  if  you  lose  I  have  absolute 
disposal  of  your  fire." 

"Ah!"t  and  the  Guerrilla  straightened  himself  up  all  of  a 
sudden,  "what  would  you  do  with  my  fire?" 

"Keep  your  hands  clean  from  innocent  blood,  John  Thrail- 
kill.  Is  not  that  enough?" 

The  money  was  accepted,  the  wager  with  the  priest  was  laid, 
and  the  battle  began.  When  it  was  over  the  black  cock  lay 
dead  on  the  sands  of  the  arena,  slain  by  the  sweep  of  one 
terrific  blow,  while  over  him,  in  pitiless  defiance,  his  antago- 
nist, dun  in  plumage  and  ragged  in  crest  and  feather,  stood  a 
victor,  conscious  of  his  triumph  and  his  prowess.  The  sun  was 
setting,  and  two  men  stood  face  to  face  in  the  glow  of  the 
crimsoning  sky.  On  either  flank  of  them  a  second  took  his 
place,  a  look  of  sorrow  on  the  bold  bronzed  face  of  Berry,  the 
light  of  anticipation  in  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  calm  Gillette. 
Well  kept,  indeed,  had  been  the  secret  of  the  tragedy.  The 
group  who  stood  alone  on  the  golden  edge  of  the  evening  were 
all  who  knew  the  ways  and  the  means  of  the  work  before  them. 
West  took  his  place  as  a  man  who  had  shaken  hands  with  life 
and  knew  how  to  die.  Thrailkill  had  never  been  merciful,  and 
this  day  of  all  days  were  the  chances  dead  against  a  moment  of 
pity  or  forgiveness.  The  ground  was  a  little  patch  of  grass 
beside  a  stream,  having  trees  in  the  rear  of  it,  and  trees  over 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  waters  running  musically  to  the  sea.  In 
the  distance  there  were  houses  from  which  peaceful  smoke 
ascended.  Through  the  haze  of  the  gathering  twilight  the 
sound  of  bells  came  from  the  homeward  plodding  herds,  and 
from  the  fields  the  happy  voices  of  the  reapers.  West  stood 
full  front  to  his  adversary — certain  of  death.  He  expected 
nothing  beyond  a  quick  and  a  speedy  bullet — one  which  would 
kill  without  inflicting  needless  pain. 

The  word  was  given.  Thrailkill  threw  his  pistol  out ,  covered 
his  antagonist  once  fairly,  looked  once  into  his  eyes  and  saw 
that  they  did  not  quail,  and  then,  with  a  motion  as  instantaneous 
as  it  was  unexpected,  lifted  it  up  overhead  and  fired  in  the  air. 

Gillette  had  won  the  wager  I 


478  NOTED  GUEERILLAS,  OB 

The  fight  in  which  Crockett  was  killed  was  also  a  fight  of 
Thrailkill's  contriving.  It  was  a  fight  based  upon  a  romance,  a 
night  attack  that  grew  from  a  goatherd's  story  into  a  savage 
scene  of  shooting  and  killing. 

As  Shelby's  Expedition  won  well  its  way  into  Mexico,  many 
(places  old  in  local  song  and  story,  arose,  as  it  were,  from  the 
past,  and  stood  out,  clear-cut  and  crimson,  against  the  back- 
ground of  a  history  filled  to  the  brim  with  rapine,  and  lust,  and 
slaughter.  No  other  land  under  the  sun  had  an  awakening  so 
storm-begirt,  a  christening  so  bloody  and  remorseless.  First 
the  Spaniards  under  Cortez — swart,  fierce,  long  of  broadsword 
and  limb ;  and  next  the  Revolution,  wherein  no  man  died  peace- 
fully or  under  the  shade  of  a  roof.  There  was  Hidalgo,  the 
ferocious  priest — shot.  Morales,  with  these  words  in  his  mouth 
— shot:  "Lord,  if  I  have  done  well,  Thou  knowest  it;  if  ill,  to 
Thy  infinite  mercy  I  commend  my  soul."  Leonardo  Bravo, 
scorning  to  fly — shot.  Nicholas  Bravo,  his  son,  who  had  offered 
a  thousand  captives  for  his  father's  life — shot.  Matamoras — 
ishot.  Mina — shot.  Guerrera — shot.  Then  came  the  Repub- 
lic— bloodier,  bitterer,  crueler.  Victoria,  its  first  President — 
shot.  Mexia — shot.  Pedraza  —  shot.  Santmanet — shot  by 
General  Ampudia,  who  cut  off  his  head,  boiled  it  in  oil,  and 
stuck  it  up  on  a  pole  to  blacken  in  the  sun.  Herrera — shot. 
Paredes — shot.  All  of  them  shot,  these  Mexican  Presidents,  ex- 
cept Santa  Anna,  who  lost  a  leg  by  the  French  and  a  country  by 
the  Americans.  Among  his  game-cocks  and  his  mistresses,  he 
lived  many  a  day  in  Havana,  seeing  only  when  his  aged  eyes  had 
lost  their  lustre  the  white  brow  of  Orizava  from  the  Southern  Sea, 
and  resting  only  again  under  the  orange  and  the  banana  trees 
about  Cordova,  a  tottering  frame  that  had  felt  to  their  fullest 
the  heat  and  the  cold  of  Mexican  revolution.  It  was  a  land  old 
in  the  world's  history  that  these  men  rode  into,  and  a  land 
stained  in  the  world's  crimes — a  land  filled  full  of  the  sun  and 
the  tropics.  What  wonder,  then,  that  a  deed  was  done  on  the 
fifth  day's  marching  that  had  about  it  the  splendid  dash  and 
bravado  of  mediaeval  chivalry. 

Keeping  outtermust  guard,  one  balmy  evening,  far  beyond  the 
silent  camp  of  the  dreaming  soldiers,  John  Thrailkill  and  James 
Wood  did  vigilant  duty  in  front  of  the  reserve.  The  fire  had 
gone  out  when  the  cooking  was  done,  and  the  earth  smelt 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  479 

sweet  with  grasses  and  the  dew  on  the  grasses.  A  low  pulse 
of  song  broke  on  the  bearded  faces  of  the  cacti,  and  sobbed  in 
fading  cadence  as  the  waves  that  came  in  from  the  salt  sea, 
seeking  the  south  wind.  This  was  the  vesper  strain  of  the 
katydid,  sad,  solacing,  rhythmical. 

Before  the  wary  eyes  of  the  sentinels  a  figure  rose  up,  waving 
his  blanket  as  a  truce-flag.  Encouraged,  he  came  into  the  lines, 
not  full  assured  of  his  bearings — frightened  a  little  and  prone 
to  be  communicative  by  way  of  propitiation.  Had  the  Amer- 
icans heard  of  Encarnacion.  No,  they  had  not  heard  of  Encar- 
nacion.  What  was  Encarnacion  ? 

The  Mexican,  born  robber  and  devout  Catholic,  crossed  him- 
self. Not  to  have  heard  of  Encarnacion  was  next  in  infamy  to 
having  slaughtered  a  priest.  Horror  made  him  garrulous.  Fear, 
if  it  does  not  paralyze,  has  been  known  to  make  the  dumb 
speak.  Encarnacion  was  a  hacienda,  and  a  hacienda,  literally 
translated,  is  a  plantation  with  royal  stables,  and  acres  of  corral, 
and  abounding  water,  and  long  rows  of  male  and  female  slave 
cabins,  and  a  Don  of  an  owner,  who  has  music,  and  singing- 
maidens,  and  pillars  of  silver  dollars,  and  a  passionate,  brief 
life,  wherein  wine  and  women  rise  upon  it  at  last  and  cut  it 
short.  Even  if  no  ill-luck  intervenes,  the  pace  to  the  devil  is  a 
terrible  one,  and  superb  riders  though  they  are,  the  best  seat  in 
the  saddle  sways  heavily  at  last,  and  the  truest  hand  on  the  rein 
relaxes  ere  manhood  reaches  its  noon  and  the  shadows  of  the 
west. 

Luis  Enrico  Rodriguez  owned  Encarnacion,  a  Spaniard  born, 
and  a  patron  saint  of  all  the  robbers  who  lived  in  the  neigh- 
boring mountains,  and  of  all  the  senoritas  who  plaited  their  hair 
by  the  banks  of  his  arroyos  and  hid  but  charily  their  dusky 
bodies  in  the  limpid  waves.  The  hands  of  the  French  had  been 
laid  upon  him  lightly.  For  forage  and  foray  Dupin,  that  terrible 
Contre-Guerrilla,  had  never  penetrated  the  mountain  line  which 
shut  in  his  guarded  dominions  from  the  world  beyond.  When 
strangers  came  he  gave  them  greeting;  when  soldiers  came,  he 
gave  them  of  his  flocks  and  herds,  his  wines  and  treasures. 

There  was  one  pearl,  however,  a  pearl  of  great  price,  whom 
no  stranger  eyes  had  ever  seen,  to  whom  no  stranger  tongue  had 
•ever  spoken  a  fair  good  morning.  The  slaves  called  it  a  spirit, 
the  confessor  a  sorceress,  the  lazy  gossips  a  gringo  witch,  the 


480  NOTED  GUEBBILLAS,  OK 

man  who  knew  best  of  all  called  it  wife,  and  yet  no  sprinkling 
of  water  or  blessing  of  church  had  made  the  name  a  holy  one. 

Rodriguez  owned  Encarnacion,  and  Encarnacion  owned  a 
skeleton.  This  much  James  Wood  and  John  Thrailkill  knew 
when  the  half  goat-herder  and  robber  had  told  but  half  hi» 
story.  When  he  finished  his  other  half  this  much  re- 
mained of  it: 

Years  before,  in  Sonora,  a  California  hunter  of  gold  had  found 
his  way  to  some  streams  where  a  beautiful  Indian  woman  lived 
with  her  tribe.  They  were  married,  and  a  daughter  was  born 
tp  them,  having  her  father's  Saxon  hair  and  her  mother's  eyes 
of  tropical  dusk.  From  youth  to  womanhood  this  daughter  had 
been  educated  in  San  Francisco.  When  she  returned  she  was 
an  American,  having  nothing  of  her  Indian  ancestry  but  its 
color.  Even  her  mother's  language  was  unknown  to  her.  One 
day  in  Guaymas  Rodriquez  looked  upon  her  as  a  vision.  He 
was  a  Spaniard  and  a  millionaire,  and  he  believed  all  things 
possible.  The  wooing  was  long,  but  the  web,  like  the  web  of 
Penelope's,  was  never  woven.  He  failed  in  his  eloquence,  in 
his  money,  in  his  passionate  entreaties,  in  his  stratagems,  in  his 
lyings-in-wait — in  everything,  indeed,  that  savored  of  pleading 
or  purchase.  Some  men  come  often  to  their  last  dollar — never 
to  the  end  of  their  audacity.  If  fate  should  choose  to  back  a 
lover  against  the  world,  fate  would  give  long  odds  on  a  Span- 
iard. 

At  last,  when  everything  else  had  been  tried,  Rodriguez  deter- 
mined upon  abduction.  This  was  a  common  Mexican  custom, 
dangerous  only  in  its  failure.  No  matter  what  the  risk,  no 
matter  how  monstrous  the  circumstances,  no  matter  how  many 
corpses  lay  in  the  pathway  looking  up  from  plotting  to  fulfil- 
ment, so  only  in  the  end  the  lust  of  the  man  triumphed  over  the 
virtue  of  the  woman.  Gathering  together  hastily  a  band  of 
bravos,  whose  devotion  was  in  exact  proportion  to  the  dollars 
paid,  Rodriguez  seized  upon  the  maiden  returning  late  one  night 
from  the  opera,  and  bore  her  away  with  all  speed  towards  Encar- 
nacion. The  Californian,  born  of  a  tiger  race  that  invariably 
dies  hard,  mounted  such  few  men  as  loved  him  and  followed  on 
furiously  in  pursuit.  Bereft  of  his  young,  he  had  but  one  thing 
to  do — Ml. 

Fixed  as  fate  and  as  relentless,  the  race  went  on.     Turning, 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  481 

once  fairly  at  bay,  pursuers  and  pursued  met  in  a  death  grapple. 
The  Californian  died  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  leaving  stern  and 
stark  traces  behind  of  his  terrible  prowess.  What  cared  Rodri- 
guez, however,  for  a  bravo  more  or  less?  The  woman  was  safe, 
and  on  his  own  garments  nowhere  did  the  strife  leave  aught  of 
crimson  or  dust.  Once  well  in  her  chamber,  a  mistress,  per- 
haps— a  prisoner  certainly,  she  beat  her  wings  in  vain  against 
the  strong  bars  of  her  palace,  for  all  that  gold  could  give  or 
passion  suggest  had  been  poured  out  at  the  feet  of  Inez  Walker. 
Servants  came  and  went  at  her  bidding.  The  priest  blessed 
and  beamed  upon  her.  The  captor  was  fierce  by  turns,  and  in 
the  dust  at  her  feet  by  turns ;  but  amid  it  all  the  face  of  a  mur- 
dered father  rose  up  in  her  memory,  and  pra37ers  for  vengeance 
upon  her  father's  murderers  broke  ever  from  her  unrelenting 
lips.  At  times  fearful  cries  came  out  from  the  woman's  cham- 
ber. The  domestics  heard  these  and  crossed  themselves.  Once- 
in  a  terrible  storm  she  fled  from  her  thraldom  and  wandered 
frantically  about  until  she  sank  down  insensible.  She  was  found 
alone  with  her  beauty  and  her  agony.  Rodriguez  lifted  her  in 
his  arms  and  bore  her  back  to  her  chamber.  A  fever  followed, 
scorching  her  young  face  until  it  was  pitiful,  and  shredding 
away  her  Saxon  hair  until  all  its  gloss  was  gone  and  all  its  silken 
rippling  stranded.  She  lived  on,  however,  and  under  the  light 
of  a  Southern  sky,  and  by  the  fitful  embers  of  a  soldier's  bivouac, 
a  robber  goatherd  was  telling  the  story  of  an  American's  daugh- 
ter to  an  American's  son. 

"  Was  it  far  to  Encarnacion?" 

Jim  Wood  asked  this  question  in  his  broken   Spanish  wayr 
looking  out  to  the  front,  musing. 

"By  to-morrow  night,  Senor,"  the  goatherd  made  answer, 
"you  will  be  there." 

"  Have  you  told  the  straight  truth,  Mexican?" 

"As  the  Virgin  is  true,  Senor." 

"So  be  it.     You  shall  sleep  this  night  at  the  outpost.     To- 
morrow we  will  see." 

The  Mexican  smoked  a  cigarito  and  went  to  h  <i.  Whether 
he  slept  or  not  he  made  no  sign.  Full  confi<U-nen  rarely  lavs 
hold  of  an  Indian's  heart.  Replenishing  the  li>v.  Wood  »m\ 
Thrailkill  sat  an  hour  together  in  silence.  Bey<>  -  h 
untiring  glances  of  their  eyes,  the  men  were  a.- 
31 


482  NOTED  GUEEBILLAS,  OR 

Finally  Thrailkill  spoke  to  Wood: 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?" 

"Encarnacion.     And  you?*' 

"Inez  Walker.    It  is  the  same." 

The  Mexican  turned  in  his  blanket,  muttering.  Wood's 
revolver  covered  him : 

"Lie  still,"  he  said,  "and  muffle  up  your  ears.  You  may  not 
understand  English,  but  you  understand  this,"  and  he  waved 
the  pistol  menacingly  before  his  eyes.  "One  never  does  know 
when  these  yellow  snakes  are  asleep." 

"No  matter,"  replied  Thrailkill,  sententiously,  "they  never 
sleep." 

It  was  daylight  again,  and  although  the  two  men  had  not  un- 
folded their  blankets,  they  were  as  fresh  as  the  dew  on  the 
grasses — fresh  enough  to  have  planned  an  enterprise  as  daring 
and  as  desperate  as  anything  ever  dreamed  of  in  romance  or  set 
forth  in  fable. 

The  to-morrow  night  of  the  Mexican  had  come,  and  there  lay 
Encarnacion  in  plain  view  under  the  starlight.  Rodriguez  had 
kept  aloof  from  the  American  encampment.  Through  the  last 
hours  of  the  afternoon  wide-hatted  rancheros  had  ridden  up  to 
the  corral  in  unusual  numbers,  had  dismounted,  and  had  entered 
in.  Shelby,  who  took  note  of  everything,  took  note  of  this  also. 

"They  do  not  come  out,"  he  said.  "There  are  some  signs  of 
preparation  about,  and  some  fears  manifested  against  a  night 
attack.  Save  for  our  grass  and  our  goats,  I  know  of  no  reason 
why  our  foraging  should  be  heavier  now  than  formerly." 

Twice  Wood  and  Thraukill  had  been  on  the  eve  of  telling  him 
the  whole  story,  and  twice  their  hearts  had  failed  them.  Shelby 
had  been  getting  sterner  and  sterner  of  late,  and  the  reins  had 
become  to  be  drawn  tighter  and  tighter.  Perhaps  it  was  neces- 
sary. Certainly  since  the  last  furious  attack  by  the  Mexican 
guerrillas  those  who  had  looked  upon  discipline  as  an  ill-favored 
mistress  had  ended  by  embracing  her. 

As  the  picquets  were  being  told  off  for  duty,  Wood  came 
close  to  Thrailkill  and  whispered : 

"The  men  will  be  ready  by  twelve.  They  are  volunteers  and 
splendid  fellows.  How  many  of  them  will  be  shot?" 

"Q.uien  sabe?  Those  who  take  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the 
sword.' 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BOEDER  483 

With  all  his  gold,  and  his  leagues  upon  leagues  of  cattle  and 
land,  Rodriguez  had  only  for  eagle's  nest  an  adobe  e3rrie. 
Hither  his  dove  had  been  carried.  On  the  right  of  this 
long  rows  of  cabins  constituted  the  quarters  of  his  peons. 
Near  to  the  great  gate  were  acres  of  corral.  Within  this  sad- 
dled steeds  in  state  were  lazily  feeding.  A  Mexican  loves  his 
horse,  but  this  is  no  reason  why  he  does  not  starve  him.  This 
night,  however,  Rodriguez  was  bountiful.  For  fight  and  flight 
both  men  and  animals  must  not  go  hungry.  On  the  top  of  the 
main  building  a  kind  of  tower  lifted  itself  up.  It  was  roomy 
and  spacious,  and  flanked  by  step .  that  clung  to  it  tenaciously. 
In  this  tower  a  light  shone,  while  all  below  and  about  it  was 
hushed  and  impenetrable.  High  adobe  walls  encircled  the  man- 
sion, the  cabins,  the  corral,  the  acacia  trees,  the  fountain  that 
splashed  plaintively,  and  the  massive  portal  which  had  mystery 
written  all  over  its  rugged  outlines. 

The  nearest  picquet  was  over  beyond  Encarnacion,  and  the 
camp  guards  were  only  for  sentinel  duty.  Free  to  come  and 
go,  the  men  had  no  watchword  for  the  night.  None  was 
needed.  Suddenly,  and  if  one  had  looked  up  from  his  blankets 
he  might  have  seen  a  long,  dark  line  standing  out  against  the 
sky.  This  line  did  not  move. 

It  may  have  been  twelve  o'clock.  There  was  no  moon,  yet 
the  stars  gave  light  enough  for  the  men  to  see  each  other's 
faces,  and  to  recognize  one  another.  It  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  the  camp  to  the  hacienda,  and  almost  the  same  distance  to 
the  picquet  post  from  where  the  Americans  had  formed.  In  the 
ranks  one  might  have  seen  such  veteran  campaigners — stern  and 
rugged,  and  scant  of  speech  in  danger — as  McDougall,  Tom 
Boswell,  Armstead,  Winship,  Ras  Woods,  Joe  Macey,  Vines, 
James  Kirtley,  Blackwell,  Rudd,  Crockett,  Collins,  Jack  Will- 
iams, Owens,  Timberlake,  Darnell,  Johnson,  the  two  Berrys — 
Richard  and  Isaac — and  a  dozen  others  of  like  courage  and 
material.  Wood  and  Thrailkill  stood  forward  by  right  as  leaders. 
All  knew  that  they  would  carry  them  far  enough,  &ome  may 
have  thought,  perhaps,  that  they  would  carry  them  too  far.  The 
line,  hushed  now  and  ominous,  stood  still  as  a  wall.  From 
front  to  rear  Thrailkill  walked  along  its  whole  length,  speaking 
some  low  and  cheering  words. 

"Boys,"  he  commenced,  "none  of  us   know  what  is  waiting 


484  NOTED  GUERRILLAS,  OR 

inside  the  corral.  Mexicans  fight  well  in  the  dark,  it  is  said, 
and  see  better  than  wolves ;  but  we  must  have  that  American 
woman  safe  out  of  their  hands  or  we  must  burn  the  buildings. 
If  the  hazard  is  too  great  for  any  of  you,  step  out  of  the  ranks. 
What  we  are  about  to  do  must  needs  be  done  quickly.  Shelby 
sleeps  little  of  late,  and  may  be  even  at  this  moment  searching 
through  the  camp  for  some  of  us.  Let  him  find  even  so  much 
as  one  blanket  empty,  and  from  the  heroes  of  a  night  attack  we 
shall  become  its  criminals." 

Sweeney,  a  one-armed  soldier  who  had  served  under  Walker 
in  Nicaragua,  and  who  was  in  the  front  always  in  hours  of  enter- 
prise or  peril,  replied  to  Thrailkill : 

"Since  time  is  valuable,  lead  on." 

The  line  put  itself  in  motion.  Two  men  sent  forward  to  try 
the  great  gate,  returned  rapidly.  Thrailkill  met  them. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"It  is  dark  all  about  there,  and  the  gate  itself  is  as  strong  as 
a  mountain." 

"We  shall  batter  it  down." 

A  beam  was  brought — a  huge  piece  of  timber  wrenched  from 
the  upright  fastenings  of  a  large  irrigating  basin.  Twenty 
men  manned  this  and  advanced  upon  the  gate.  In  an  instant 
thereafter  there  were  tremendous  and  resounding  blows,  shouts, 
cries,  oaths  and  musket  shots.  Before  this  gigantic  battering-ram 
adobe  walls  and  iron  fastenings  gave  way.  The  bars  of  the 
barrier  were  broken  as  reeds,  the  locks  were  crushed,  the 
hinges  were  beaten  in,  while  with  a  fierce  yell  and  rush  the 
Americans  swarmed  to  the  attack  of  the  main  building.  The 
light  in  the  tower  guided  them.  A  legion  of  devils  seemed  to 
have  broken  loose.  The  stabled  steeds  of  the  Mexicans  reared 
and  plunged  in  the  infernal  din  of  the  fight,  and  dashed  hither 
and  thither,  masterless  and  riderless.  The  camp  where  Shelby 
rested  was  instantly  alarmed.  The  shrill  notes  of  the  bugle 
were  heard  over  all  the  tumult,  and  with  them  the  encouraging 
voices  of  Wood  and  Thiailkill  crying  out:  "Make  haste,  men, 
make  haste  1  In  twenty  minutes  more  we  will  be  between 
two  fires." 

Crouching  in  the  stables  and  pouring  forth  a  murderous  fire 
from  their  ambuscades  in  the  darkness,  some  twenty  rancheroa 
made  sudden  and  desperate  battle.  Joe  Macey  and  Ike  Berry 


THE  WABFABE  OF  THE  BOEDER  485 

charged  through  the  gloom  upon  the  unknown,  guided  only  by 
the  lurid  and  fitful  flashes  of  the  muskets.  When  the  work  was 
over  the  corral  no  longer  vomited  its  flame;  silence  reigned 
there,  that  fearful  and  ominous  silence  fit  only  for  the  dead  who 
die  suddenly. 

The  camp,  no  longer  in  sleep,  had  become  menacing.  Short 
words  of  command  came  out  of  it,  and  the  tread  of  trained  men 
forming  rapidly  for  battle.  Some  skirmishers,  even  in  the  very 
first  moments  of  the  combat,  had  been  thrown  forward  quite  to 
the  hacienda.  They  were  almost  nude,  and  stood  out  under 
the  starlight  as  white  spectres,  threatening  yet  undefined.  They 
had  guns  at  least  and  pistols,  and  in  so  much  were  mortal. 
These  spectres  had  reason  also  and  discretion.  Close  upon  the 
fragments  of  the  great  gate  and  looking  in  upon  the  waves  of 
the  fight  as  they  rose  and  fell,  they  yet  did  not  fire.  They 
believed  at  least  that  some  of  their  kindred  and  comrades  were 
there. 

For  a  brief  ten  minutes  more  the  combat  raged  evenly. 
Cheered  by  the  voice  of  Rodriguez  and  stimulated  by  his 
example,  his  retainers  clung  bitterly  to  the  fight.  The  doors 
were  as  redoubts.  The  windows  were  as  miniature  casements. 
Once  on  the  steps  of  the  tower,  Rodriguez  showed  himself  for 
an  instant.  A  dozen  of  the  best  shots  in  the  attacking  party 
fired  at  him.  No  answer  save  an  oath  of  defiance  so  savage 
and  harsh  that  it  sounded  unnatural  even  in  the  roar  of  the 
furious  hurricane. 

There  was  a  lull.  Every  Mexican  outside  the  main  building 
had  been  either  killed  or  wounded.  Against  the  massive  walls 
of  the  adobes  the  rifle  bullets  made  no  headway.  It  was  murder 
longer  to  oppose  flesh  to  masonry.  Vickers  was  killed,  young 
and  dauntless ;  Crockett,  the  Guerrilla  hero  of  the  desperate 
Lampasas  duel,  was  dead ;  Rogers  was  dead  ;  the  boy  Provines 
was  dead ;  Matterhorn,  a  stark  giant  of  a  German,  shot  four 
times,  was  breathing  his  last,  while  the  wounded  were  on  all 
sides,  some  hard  hit,  and  some  bleeding  yet  fighting  on. 

"Once  more  to  the  beam!"  shouted  Thrailkill. 

Again  the  great  battering  ram  crashed  against  the  great  door 
leading  into  the  main  hall,  and  again  there  was  a  rending  away 
of  iron,  and  wood,  and  mortar.  Through  splintered  timber, 
over  crumbling  and  jagged  masonry,  the  besiegers  poured. 


486  NOTED  GUEBKILLAS,  OR 

The  building  was  gained.  Once  well  withinside,  the  storm  of 
revolver  balls  was  terrible.  There  personal  prowess  told,  and 
there  the  killing  was  quick  and  desperate.  At  the  head  of  his 
hunted  following,  Rodriguez  fought  like  the  Spaniard  he  was, 
stubbornly  and  to  the  last.  No  lamps  lit  the  savage  melee.  While 
the  Mexicans  stood  up  to  be  shot  at  they  were  shot  where  they 
stood.  The  most  of  them  died  there.  Some  few  broke  away 
towards  the  last  and  escaped,  for  no  pursuit  was  attempted, 
and  no  man  cared  how  many  fled  or  how  fast.  It  was  the 
woman  the  Americans  wanted.  Gold  and  silver  ornaments  were 
everywhere,  and  precious  tapestry  work,  and  many  rare  and 
quaint  and  woven  things,  but  the  powder-blackened  and  blood- 
stained hands  of  the  assailants  touched  not  one  of  these.  It  was 
too  dark  to  tell  who  killed  Rodriguez.  To  the  last  his  voice 
could  be  heard  cheering  on  his  men  and  calling  down  God's 
vengeance  on  the  gringos.  Those  who  fired  at  him  specially 
fired  at  his  voice,  for  the  smoke  was  stifling,  and  the  sulphurous 
fumes  of  the  gunpowder  almost  unbearable. 

When  the  hacienda  was  won,  Shelby  had  arrived  with  the  rest 
of  the  command.  He  had  mistaken  the  cause  of  the  attack, 
and  his  mood  was  of  that  kind  which  but  seldom  came  to  him, 
but  which  when  it  did  come,  had  several  times  before  made 
some  of  his  most  hardened  and  unruly  followers  tremble  and 
turn  pale.  He  had  caused  the  hacienda  to  be  surrounded 
closely,  and  he  had  come  alone  to  the  doorway,  a  look  of 
wrathful  menace  on  his  usually  placid  face.  "Who  among  you 
have  done  this  thing?"  he  asked,  in  tones  that  were  calm,  yet 
full  and  vibrating. 

No  answer.     The  men  put  up  their  weapons. 

''Speak,  some  of  you.  Let  me  not  find  cowards  instead  of 
plunderers,  lest  I  finish  the  work  upon  you  all  that  the  Mexicans 
did  so  poorly  upon  a  few."  Thrailkill  and  Wood  came  forward 
to  the  front  then.  Covered  with  blood  and  powder  stains,  they 
seemed  in  sorry  plight  to  make  much  headway  in  defence  of 
the  night's  doings,  yet  they  told  the  tale  as  straight  as  the  goat- 
herd had  told  it  to  them,  and  in  such  simple  soldier  fashion, 
taking  all  the  sin  upon  their  own  heads  and  hands,  that  even 
the  stern  features  of  their  commander  relaxed  a  little,  and  he 
fell  to  musing.  It  may  have  been  that  the  desperate  nature  of 
the  enterprise  appealed  more  strongly  to  his  own  feelings  than 


THE  WARFARE  OF  THE  BORDER  487 

he  was  willing  that  his  men  should  know,  or  it  may  have  been 
that  his  set  purpose  softened  a  little  when  he  saw  so  many  of  his 
bravest  and  best  soldiers  come  out  from  the  darkness  and  stand 
in  silence  about  their  leaders,  Wood  and  Thrailkill,  some  of 
them  sorely  wounded,  and  all  of 'them  covered  with  the  signs  of 
the  desperate  fight,  but  certain  it  is  that  when  he  spoke  again 
his  voice  was  more  relenting  and  assuring. 

"And  where  is  the  woman?" 

Through  all  the  terrible  moments  of  the  combat  the  light  in  the 
tower  had  burned  as  a  beacon.  Perhaps  in  those  few  seconds 
when  Rodriguez  stood  alone  upon  the  steps  leading  up  to  the 
dove's-nest,  in  a  tempest  of  fire  and  smoke,  the  old  love  might 
have  been  busy  at  his  heart,  and  the  old  yearning  strong  within 
him  to  make  at  last  some  peace  with  her  for  whom  he  had  so 
deeply  sinned,  and  for  whose  sake  he  was  soon  to  so  dreadfully 
suffer.  Death  makes  many  a  sad  atonement,  and  though  late  in 
coming  at  times  to  the  evil  and  the  good  alike,  it  may  be  that 
when  the  records  of  the  heart  are  writ  beyond  the  wonderful 
river,  much  that  was  dark  on  earth  will  be  bright  in  eternity, 
and  much  that  was  cruel  and  fierce  in  finite  judgment  will  be 
made  fair  and  beautiful  when  it  is  known  how  love  gathered  up 
the  threads  of  destiny,  and  how  all  the  warp  was  blood-stained 
and  all  the  woof  that  had  bitterness  and  tears  upon  it,  could  be 
traced  to  a  woman's  hand. 

Grief-stricken,  prematurely  old,  yet  beautiful  even  amid  the 
loneliness  of  her  situation,  Inez  Walker  came  into  the  presence 
of  Shelby,  a  queen.  Some  strands  of  gray  were  in  her  glossy, 
golden  hair.  The  liquid  light  of  her  large  dark  eyes  had  long 
ago  been  quenched  in  tears.  The  form  that  had  once  been  so 
full  and  perfect,  was  now  bent  and  fragile ;  but  there  was  such  a. 
look  of  mournful  tenderness  in  her  eager,  questioning  face  that 
the  men  drew  back  from  her  presence  instinctively  and  left  her 
alone  with  their  General.  He  received  her  commands  as  if  she 
were  bestowing  a  favor  upon  him,  listening  as  a  brother  might 
until  all  her  wishes  were  made  known.  These  he  promised  to 
carry  out  to  the  letter,  and  how  well  he  did  so  none  know  better 
than  those  who  followed  him  to  Mexico. 

John  Thrailkill  still  remains  where  Shelby  left  him  in  1868,  a 
soldier  of  fortune,  who  to-day  is  hidden  by  a  shadow,  and 
to-morrow  made  joyous  with  the  sunshine.  He  fought  for  Juarez 


488  &OTED  GUERRILLAS,  Ob 

against  Maximilian,  and  commanded  at  Queretaro  a  battalion  of 
American  scouts  famed  throughout  the  Republic  for  extraor- 
dinary daring  and  enterprise.  Later,  he  was  a  revolutionist 
under  Porfirio  Diaz,  and  later  still,  he  joined  with  Diaz  in  the 
overthrow  of  both  Lerdo  and  Iglesias.  O  thers  of  his  Guerrilla 
comrades  who  accompanied  him  to  Mexico  scattered  in  every 
direction,  as  many  of  those  did  who  remained  in  the  United 
States.  Some  joined  the  French  and  returned  with  the  Zouaves 
to  Algeria.  Some  took  service  on  the  sea,  some  went  to  China, 
some  to  the  Sandwich  Islands,  and  some  remained  half  brigands 
and  half  haciendaros,  to  live  by  the  sword  and,  sooner  or  later, 
to  perish  by  it. 

THE  END. 


THE    ONLY  FULL  AND   AUTHENTIC!  HISTORY  OF 
MISSOURI  EVER  PUBLISHED. 


This  book  contains  900  Royal  Octavo  pages,  printed  on  the  finest 
quality  of  tinted  paper,  and  illustrated  with  more  than  100  engravings, 
besides  numerous  steel  plate  portraits  of  leading  citizens  of  the  State, 
both  living  and  dead,  embracing  such  names  as  ex-Governor  Hardin, 
Senator  Cockrell,  Capt.  James  B.  Eads,  Hon.  James  S.  Rollins,  General 
Sterling  Price,  Hon.  Carl  Schurz,  Gen.  Frank  P.  Blair,  Hon.  Thomas  H. 
Benton,  Judge  Edward  Bates,  and  more  than  twenty  other  citizens  dis- 
tinguished in  politics,  science,  literature  and  art. 

The  book  is  divided  into  the  following  parts : 

1st.  The  Mounds  and  Mound-builders  of  Missouri,  by  Prof.  A.  J. 
Conant. 

2d.  History  of  Missouri,  from  the  date  of  the  earliest  settlement, 
by  Col.  W.  F.  Switzler,  of  Columbia. 

3d.  Review  of  the  Climate,  Agriculture,  Mineral  Resources  and 
Material  Growth  of  the  State,  by  G.  C.  Swallow,  LL.D. 

4th.  A  chapter  on  Educational  Progress,  with  notices  of  leading 
Schools  and  School-men,  by  S.  S.  Laws,  LL.D.,  and  W.  T.  Harris,  LL.D. 

5th.  Biographical  Sketches  of  State  Officers  and  distinguished 
citizens. 

6th.  Sketches  of  the  Judiciary  and  Congressional  Delegations  of 
Missouri. 

7th.  The  Great  Cities  and  Towns  of  Missouri,  with  sketches  of 
their  distinguished  citizens. 

This  book  contains  everything  that  any  one  would  desire  to  know 
about  Missouri,  and  no  intelligent  citizen  of  the  State  can  well  afford  to 
be  without  it. 


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BOOK  FOB  YOUNG  AND  OLD. 


A  HISTORY  OF  THE 

PIONEER   FAMILIES 

—  OF  — 

MISSOTTKI. 

Embracing  a  complete  and  authentic 
LIFE  OF  DANIEL  BOONE, 

In  which  are  recorded  many  incidents  and  adventures  connected  witb 
his  life  in  Missouri  never  before  published,  and  which  will  be  found 
deeply  interesting  to  all  classes  of  readers.  Correct  portraits  of  Col. 
Boone  and  his  son,  Major  Nathan  Boone,  are  given ;  also  a  number  of 
engravings  representing  scenes  in  the  lives  of  old  pioneers,  etc. 
The  book  also  contains  a  life  of  the  celebrated  Indian  Chief, 

BLACK   HAWK, 

Dictated  by  himself  previous  to  his  death,  in  which  he  tells  how  the  In- 
dians live ;  how  they  make  war ;  how  they  marry  and  are  given  in  mar- 
riage; how  they  treat  their  families;  what  their  religion  is;  how  they 
build  their  villages  and  raise  their  crops,  and  many  other  matters  of  in- 
terest. He  also  gives  an  account  of  his  wars  against  the  white  people,, 
and  tells  how  he  aud  his  warriors  killed  and  scalped  them,  and  how  they 
were  eventually  overcome  and  captured;  and  then  he  describes  his  jour- 
ney through  the  United  States  in  charge  of  the  government  officers,  and 
gives  his  impressions  of  our  government,  our  institutions,  and  our  people 
—especially  the  white  squaws. 

In  addition  to  the  above,  the  book  contains  a  history  of  several 
hundred  Pioneer  Families  of  Missouri,  with  numerous  anecdotes,  hunt- 
ing adventures,  Indian  fights,  etc.,  rendering  it  one  of  the  most  enter- 
taining and  instructive  books  ever  published.  EVERY  WESTERN 
FAMILY  SHOULD  HAVE  A  COPY  OF  IT. 

It  contains  528  octavo  pages,  illustrated  with  portraits  of  pioneers- 
and  a  number  of  amusing  and  descriptive  engravings.  JUST  THE 
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